


Under The Same Sun

by StarkAstarte



Series: Once and Future Husbands [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU- Merlin, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Established Relationship, M/M, Modern Era, Near Future, Resurrection, Romance, Slash, back from the dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:24:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkAstarte/pseuds/StarkAstarte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has waited for Arthur for sixteen hundred years. Like always, he's having a bit of trouble waking the Once And Future King up from his slumber. But he's been waiting too long to give up now...</p><p>This is how I imagine life would go on when Arthur rises again in a Future Britain. I've tried my best to keep canonical context, with the exception of shipping Merlin and Arthur as an actual couple. This is my attempt to continue the [much more than] bromancey relationship of Arthur Pendragon and his faithful servant and warlock who tries his best to help Arthur adjust to life in a world he doesn't understand. It's angsty, slashy, and filled with necessary comic relief, just like in the good old days of Camelot. Like their Once and Future King, many beloved BBC Merlin characters will rise again. I hope you will all join me in welcoming them back from the land of the dead to the realm of the living that needs them now more than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King Who Loved Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OwnThyself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwnThyself/gifts).



 

  
_Oh, I made these plans, made these plans_   
_With you around dear_   
_With you around dear_

_Will you be there when the day's done_   
_Will you be there_   
_Under the same, under the same sun_   
_Under the same, under the same sun..._

\--Ben Howard--

By the time Arthur came up out of the mist, Merlin was beginning to think he’d gone mad. That he’d imagined it all. That his long and lonely life was little more than a fever dream. That perhaps he’d been the one to die and an endless life of waiting was the sort of thing about which spirits dreamed in the shadowy Halls of the Dead.

Sixteen hundred years he’d waited. Sixteen centuries fueled only by faith and the sort of love most sane people thought only existed in fairytales. And it _was_ a fairytale, of sorts, wasn’t it? The lonely wizard by the lake. The lost king drowned in a mist, his side leaking blood red as a cloak of velvet and light as immutable as the golden breath of a dragon.

The world still believed in them, but not the way it used to.

It believed in them like it believed in Santa Claus and Peter Pan. Wishful thinking. Stories told to beat back the scary things in the night. Merlin and Arthur, the Wise Wizard and the Young King, Fair and Just. Merlin had lived long enough to hear their story told in a thousand ways, braided together like tangled nets, writhing and fickle as serpents. None of them a lie. None of them quite the truth he knew, either.

But all that was over, now.

Arthur, the Once and Future King, his lover and his friend, had come again. Just like the dragon said he would. Just like Tennyson wrote about in his dreary poems. _The king who loved me and cannot die..._

Well. He could. And he did.

But now he was back. He lay again on England’s green and pleasant land. Green but for the motorways and belching factories. Pleasant but for the crowds of raucous, invading tourists from a world they’d never dreamed existed, so many years ago.

He was here. In Albion that was. Arthur Pendragon, home at last.

The only trouble was, Merlin couldn’t seem to wake him up.  It had been several hours, and the pale form slept still, as though death hadn’t quite relinquished him. And who would give up such a prize? Merlin didn’t, himself. Not easily. Part of him never had. The part of him that kept him going when all reason screamed against it. Just let it go. Let _him_ go. But he hadn’t. And the ancient warlock had finally been rewarded.

As he leaned over the unconscious face of his king, Merlin’s wisps of silver hair mingled with the damp tendrils of Arthur’s, still the unfaded colour of burnished gold. Merlin’s hand shook as he stroked the hair back from the pale brow. So fair. So cold. Like a marble monument in place of a man. His gnarled fingers looked obscene against all of that smooth, gleaming flesh. Every single century between them showed. The ley-lines incised into Merlin's skin were deep as time.

Merlin pressed a palm against his king’s chainmail-encased chest. The heart beat slowly but steadily. So slowly no other man could perceive it. So steadily it could replace the warning bells of Camelot, silent these long centuries. Their every crisis over.

The hand like a gnarled fist of mandrake root began to shimmer as Merlin’s unfaded eyes flashed gold. He didn’t speak the spell aloud. He didn’t need to. The skin, thin and scored as crumpled parchment, began to smooth, like reconstituted candlewax. He didn’t want Arthur to wake up and get confused, afraid of the bent old man leering over him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Emrys, but he’d never learned to trust him. Merlin wanted the first sight of his face that Arthur saw to be the one he knew well. Big ears, goofy grin and all. Merlin barely remembered that face. He would have to be contented with seeing it reflected in the Once Dead King’s eyes.

Years receded from him like a tide pulled backwards by a capricious moon. He focused on the spell, a delicate one. He didn’t want to take it too far, and end up a spotty adolescent, even scrawnier and more awkward than the day when he’d first arrived in Camelot, taken one look at Arthur Pendragon, and had been overcome with the most potent case of instant dislike he’d ever experienced. The strongest love was sometimes odd that way. It needed a wind-up, like a mechanical toy. It went a bit mad in the wrong direction at first, but then settled into itself. Became what it was destined to be.

He eased off as the magic pulled his flesh smooth and taut in a way he dimly remembered. His body was twenty-two again, or thereabouts. His hair darkened back to raven’s feathers. He’d not bothered to shorten it--too impatient, lest Arthur waken mid-spell. It blew about him slightly in the breeze atop the Tor. The breeze that still tasted faintly of Avalon, of those vanished waters upon which he’d once set Arthur’s funereal coracle, comforted only by a bed of bracken and a final pressing of Merlin's shaking fingers to the blameless brow.

Merlin was young again on the outside, but the years inside of him were dense, heavy things. He’d allowed himself to age, along with the rest of the people he’d loved. After the final death had left him alone, he’d not returned himself to youth and whatever gawkish beauty he once possessed. It wasn’t seemly. Not then. Just as now it wasn’t seemly that he should be a wizened, wrung-out rag, and his king untouched by the hand of time. He wanted to be whatever Arthur was. He couldn’t die, so he’d let himself emaciate, his limbs twisting through the centuries until they resembled a foursome of hazelwood wands. Now it was time to come back to life for Merlin as well, a double-edged Resurrection Spell. 

Beneath his waxen hand, the chest stirred. He felt the great heart whir to life, thumping and thrumming. Life had finally been convinced to retake hold of the reins.

The eyes flew open, wide and unclouded as mountain tarns. They were filled with all the terrors of an early grave.

But then they focused on Merlin’s face, and the Once and Future King smiled sweetly. “Merlin,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed again.

Merlin’s heart kicked in his chest before galloping in place. “Yes, my king?”

“Please.” he whispered, lips barely moving. As if muttering in a dream. “Just...just. Hold me.”

Merlin laughed, tears welling in his own fierce blue eyes. They spilled down his cheekbones as he gathered the glorious living weight of Arthur Pendragon into his arms for the first time in sixteen centuries. He fell back onto the thick turf of the Tor without letting the other man go, settling them into a complicated knot of chainmail, tattered army surplus overcoat, and heavy booted feet. Arthur’s head rested in the hollow of Merlin’s shoulder, his fair hair tickling Merlin’s now-smooth chin. The beard that shielded him for centuries was gone. His jawline was as silky as a boy’s.

He reached up to stroke the crown of Arthur’s head. He could smell his hair, like clover and sweetgrasses, vetiver and clean sweat. He continued his inventory of the familiar features, exploring Arthur's face with his fingers as though struck hysterically blind. He would know these cheekbones anywhere--the proud prow of that prominent nose. Those lips. _Gods_. Firm, and yet smooth as ribbons of satin. It felt a little wrong, somehow, to allow those memories to seep back into him. He was, after all, and despite appearances, an old man now. Arthur was still so young. He had his whole life ahead of him, again. Merlin had no right to claim any of it for himself, no matter how long he had waited, and through what unspeakable sorrows.

Perhaps the reverse-aging spell was a mistake.

But it seemed to calm Arthur down just as he’d hoped.

_Please. Just hold me._

“I have been, my king,” he whispered softly into the shells of the unhearing ears. “All of these long years. And to the end of time.”

He stroked the long, sinewed neck, tracing it to the opening of the hauberk he had placed over Arthur’s torso himself too many times to recount. There was a knot of fabric there, where there shouldn’t be anything but Arthur’s firm flesh. Merlin frowned, hooking a finger through a loop of the rough linen. He gave it a tug, working it out of its ancient hiding place. A token of Gwen’s, no doubt. A favour for her husband on the eve of his last battle.

Merlin worked it free, and held it up to the fading light. The last rays of the departing sun shone through the worn fabric. A square of red homespun tied into a neckerchief. Only a very slender neck would fit it. Only a magician could untie those tightly-made loveknots, woven together a millenium and a half ago. When the world had been both a darker and brighter place.

The old man who had been made young pressed the cloth against his face and wept. The king who was dead and had risen again slept on.

Sheltered in familiar arms. Under the same sun.

 


	2. Crown of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Once and Future King wakes up, is confused, makes fun of Merlin, laughs, and gets ready to go home again.

 

They stayed out on the Tor all night.

At some point, long before dawn, Merlin dragged the still slumbering king inside of St. Michael’s Tower, which afforded them shelter from the wind. Though they were out of luck if it began to rain, as the old pile was entirely roofless. Merlin preferred it that way. He liked to see the stars. It reminded him of lounging atop the battlements of the Citadel with Arthur during those long, sultry summer nights in Camelot.

“This isn’t the Tower you know, sire,” Merlin told the king as he arranged him into a more comfortable position. A knight is accustomed to sleeping on the naked earth. A corpse even more so. Undressed stone would be as soft as a maiden’s bower to Arthur’s bones. Clearly he agreed, as he continued to sleep as peacefully as a well-fed babe. “It’s a Christian ruin. Not at all the wild fortress we used to see. The mists have swallowed Avalon. It’s waters receded to nothing. Sheep graze and people lollop about on its sacred bed.” Merlin stretched his hands out and wordlessly conjured a glowing, smokeless fire suspended six inches above the ground, blue as the fires kindled from brine-soaked driftwood. “The moment I pushed your coracle out into the shining lake, Avalon began to fade. Perhaps even as I flung Excalibur out into the water and your hand caught it, gleaming in the last light of day you ever knew. Until today.”

Merlin settled himself against the stone ledge that looked as though it might contain some saintly relic. There were a lot of legends surrounding St. Michael’s. He paid them very little mind. There was room for only one legend within him, and he was living it. As he’s always done. He pulled Arthur closer, settling the sleeping king’s head on his lap. He wanted to be as close as he could to the recently dead man, tonight. He would need the comfort of an old friend, his first night back in his own country.

Merlin sighed deeply, worry already nibbling away at his newly youthful brow. “This isn’t the Albion you knew, either, Arthur,” he murmured, more for the company than anything else. He wasn’t sure the king could hear him. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t.

Merlin had spent a long time muttering to himself over the years, trying to keep sane in the silence. Keeping the hounds of sadness and utter emptiness at bay. He noticed the way the spell had changed his voice back, as well. No longer the creak of an ancient pair of bellows, cantankerous and wary. His voice was rich and melodic in a way he’d never appreciated when he was young. His accent still spoke of Ealdor, that tiny forgotten village lost beneath the loam of what had become Wales. In the lilt and cadence of his own prattle he could hear the voice of Hunith, dead these many hundred years. 

He and Arthur were not technically from the same country. He supposed it mattered very little now. They should both of them be dust and gone. And yet. Here they were. Here they would remain. This land more theirs than anyone’s who now breathed.

“It’s not the same on the outside,” he whispered, tender fingers soothing away a frown troubling Arthur’s brow. “But inside, it’s still Albion. Through and through. As I am the Merlin you knew and once loved, no matter the face I show to the world.”

He continued to stroke and gentle the king, as much for his own comfort as Arthur’s. He was mesmerized by the sight of his own smooth skin. He’d nearly forgotten that for a few decades in his life, a very long time ago, and a few intervals in between when it suited him to be so, he’d actually been this young. And now he was. He smiled reflexively, thinking about a mythology that had always irritated him. That Merlin the Sorcerer aged, not forwards from infancy to old age like ordinary men, but backwards--from dotage to the cradle.

 _Preposterous!_ he’d always said. _Mawkish sentimentality!_ he’d crowed. But now look at him. Skin as soft as a babe’s, and him over 1600 years old.

And how old was Arthur? Was he as old as Merlin--older, even, by several years, as he was when they’d been young men together?

The king looked the same as he had the day he died. Surely he hadn’t suffered, as Merlin had. He would pray for that, if he knew how. _Please. Gods. Goddesses. Earth, moon, stars. Let him not have suffered. Let him only have slept long and sweet, dreaming of my ridiculous face, my steady eyes and irascible grin. Let the terrors of long centuries of solitude have passed him by, like a dark horse in an impenetrable night....Let that loathesome steed have come for me alone._

As dawn broke over them, washing Arthur in the watercolours only England is capable of rendering, the king’s eyes snapped open.

“Merlin,” he said again, his voice stronger, steadier, thrilling Merlin to the soul. As if the king knew where he was, or was pretending to, convincingly, to seem strong. In command. It almost worked. He gave himself away by frowning accusatorily. “Where have you brought me? What have you done with me, you bloody fool? I need to. I must. Camelot is under attack, and you’re just sitting there, _hold_ ing me!”

Before Merlin could do more than stutter, Arthur attempted to leap up to his feet. He fell immediately back down again, boneless, his whole weight crashing against Merlin’s slender form like a shipwreck on the shoals.

“Careful, you great clotpole!”  He caught the king awkwardly. Arthur was just as heavy as he remembered, and as trusting. He fell against Merlin fully expecting to be successfully caught by a man half his weight _without_ all the armour and accoutrements of battle. “Being dead didn’t inconvenience your waistline any,” Merlin muttered, setting his friend down gently all the same.

Arthur glared at him balefully “Are you calling me fat?”

Merlin smirked. “I’m just saying, you’d think a man who’s been dead as long as you have would’ve lost a stone or two. I might’ve known you’d do things your own way, Arthur Pendragon, no matter how inconvenient it is for everyone around you. Royal Prat.”

Arthur opened his mouth to begin a tirade, but then stopped. And blanched. “What do you mean, _a man who’s been dead as long as I have?_ ”

Merlin’s face became grave. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you like that. But deep down, Arthur, you know it’s the truth. You’re just a bit confused. Resurrection tends to do that to people.”

Arthur frowned. “Did you do this? Did you...bring me back to life, with magic?”

Merlin shook his head. “No, sire. England did.”

“What on earth is England?”                                             

Merlin sighed, and smiled wearily. “You are, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, Arthur. Neither do I.” He reached out and took the king’s hand, squeezing it tightly through the heavy leather glove. He felt a tiny incendiary light up somewhere deep inside of him when Arthur squeezed back. “But we’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

Arthur nodded, and then screwed up his face. “Merlin, you...sound strange. You speak differently. Like you, but sort of... _not_ like you, at all.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to it. Let’s go, before the early morning mob of loud Americans shows up and starts asking us to pose with them for snapshots.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “See? I’ve no bloody idea what you just said. Are you sickening with some kind of disease?”

Merlin laughed. “Yeah, too right, I am. It’s called Modern Living.”

“Well,” Arthur said, punching him too hard on the shoulder. Merlin winced, but secretly liked it. “Don’t worry. You can just ask Gaius for a remedy when we get back to the Citadel.”

 _Oh, if only I could._ “Right,” he said. “The Citadel. C’mon, get up. Can you walk on your own?”

He couldn’t, of course. Merlin slung one of the king’s arms over his shoulder, bearing his weight as they hobbled down the Tor. They went along the terrace pathway, which was much longer but more gradual in slope. Arthur’s eyes were wide as he took in the patchwork of farmland and the tidy houses dotting the landscape. In the distance, the ruins of the Abbey shimmered in the early morning mist. Merlin had been witness to its entire lifespan, from the first cornerstone to the dissolution of the monastaries and its inevitable disintigration. Arthur had seen none of these things. Even the smallish settlement of Glastonbury must seem like a vast city to Arthur’s eyes. Merlin pulled him closer, trying to reassure him with the sturdy warmth of his own body.

_Thank the gods he didn’t choose to come through during the bloody Festival. He’d have run screaming back to the Summerlands in an instant. Either that, or declared a one-man war on the lot of them, and all the more power to him, too._

Merlin would gladly have joined him. He loathed all of the crowds clogging up his beloved valley, the sternum-splitting thrum of the relentless bass-line that couldn’t be heard, only felt. There were rumours that a steady exposure to the invisible sound could cause the bowels to spontaneously fail. Merlin chuckled. He’d sort of like to see that. The posh, pretentious gits filling their designer wellies to the brim with the products of their trendy whole-foods diets.

Merling ate whole foods, too. But he’d been doing it long before it became a _thing_. _Centuries_ before, in fact. He was whole foods before it’d been cool the _first_ time around.

 _Gods. Arthur was right. He really did speak strangely, now._ He hadn’t noticed it happening. It’d probably happened a hundred times since he’d last spoken to the king. He’d lived only one life, but it was as segmented as a citron fruit, each era self-contained within its own thin membrane. And here he was, beginning another. The one for which all the others had been practice.

“Can we...stop, for a minute?” Arthur said, self-consciously out of breath. He panted a bit, his eyes wild, darting about like the wings of a moth with a death-wish.

“Of course, sire. Sorry. I should have realized.” He lowered Arthur to the ground, and offered him his brightly enameled canteen. Arthur stared at it uncomprehendingly. _Right. Of course. I might as well hand him a carton of pasteurized milk._

With infinite patience, Merlin unscrewed the cap and demonstrated by taking a deep swig himself before offering it back to the king. Arthur took it, sipping cautiously at first before gulping down half the lot. It was water from the Chalice Well. It should taste familiar to the king, the water of the spring centuries holy even in his own time. Merlin didn’t like to drink anything half as much, and always filled his bottle when he was nearby. Which, for obvious reasons, was extremely often.

“What is this place, Merlin?” Arthur asked quietly, calmer now. “It...seems familiar.”

“This is Avalon, sire,” Merlin told him, sitting down beside Arthur on the damp turf. “Well, the place where Avalon should be, if it was still here.”

Arthur’s sharp eyes scanned the Somerset Levels. “Where is the lake?”

“Gone. Evaporated. Or. Something like that.”

“Evaporated,” Arthur repeated. “How long ago?”

“Oh,” Merlin replied lightly. “A long time ago, now.”

They sit for a moment as Arthur looked his fill. Merlin knew how the king’s mind whirred at breakneck speed, adjusting his mental archives of geography and updating his internal map. It was all so out of context that he’d have do it again the moment they began travelling away from the Tor. Which was never easy for Merlin. He hated leaving Glastonbury. It was where he’d done so much of his waiting. But then the world moved in. Encroached. Changed irretrievably. He’d had to watch and wait from much further afield.

“Come on,” he said, rising to his feet and offering a steady hand to his pensive king. “Let’s go home.”

Arthur looked up at his old friend beseechingly. “Where is that, Merlin? I can see nothing, from here, of the place where we belong.”

Merlin smiled. “Just look into my eyes, Arthur. You’ll find everything you need.”

Arthur did as he was told, for once in his very short or excessively long life. He looked into Merlin’s eyes without blinking for a very long time. Merlin did the same. It felt like falling backwards through a thin veil he’d mistaken for something solid. The centuries flew away like dry leaves in a brisk wind. There was nothing left in the world but Merlin and his king, the man who’d loved him and left him alone in this very place. None of that mattered now. There was only this. Only now. The moment they were suspended within, eternal. Immutable. Infinite.

Arthur smiled, flashing his white, polished--and uniquely crooked--teeth. “Merlin, you waited. You waited for me, all this time. I don’t have any idea how long. But you never left me.”

“Never.” Merlin said fiercely, dropping to his knees before the king. He took Arthur’s face into his hands, stroking the flushed cheeks. “And I never will.”

He pressed a fervent kiss to his friend’s brow, and one on each eyelid. He kissed each cheek, and then drew the young man into a vise-like embrace. Arthur resisted for a moment, as rusty in affection as he was in his armour. But then he softened into Merlin’s arms, and slid his hands round the warlock’s reed-slender waist. “You’ve lost weight, Merlin,” he said sternly, his voice muffled against a bony shoulder. “You’re like a bag of sticks, and not the strong, useful kind.”

“Yes, well, there were several wars, rationing, and all of that bother.” Merlin waved his hand dismissively, still clutching the king against him. Never wanting to let go. Then he stiffened, and pushed back to glare at his friend’s grinning face. “Hey. Wait a minute. Was that an _insult_? Are you calling me _skinny_?”

Arthur tipped his head back and laughed in the old, deep-bellied way. “If the truly hideous robe fits, Merlin. What _are_ you _wearing_ , anyway? It looks like something I’d throw to my hounds for a birthing bed.”

“Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Dollop-head.”

“Scrawny little girl.”

Before the punching could begin, Merlin tugged Arthur to his feet. He seemed stronger now. He could even walk, a little unsteadily, on his own. He seemed to have summoned up some of his old swagger back from the dark land he’d left it in, and walked forward into the new-lit day.

Merlin hung back a few paces. He wanted to watch as the morning light caressed his king’s hair and lit it on fire. Oh, the gleaming of his armour. The shining of the sun on his head.

It was like a crown of gold.

 


	3. Silk Over Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur rides his new steed, makes it back to Camelot in once piece, is very sad, and to make himself feel better, picks a fight with Merlin over who's the bigger girl.

“I’m _not_ getting on that thing with you,” Arthur said, for the third time.

“Why not?” Merlin said. Also for the third time.

“Because, _Mer_ lin, I don’t even know what it is.”

Merlin laughed. “Well, it’s not going to bite you.”

The old motorcycle sputtered and coughed, then roared, well--rather like a tiny, cantankerous dragon. Arthur lept back, hand clutching reflexively at  his empty scabbard.

“Who’s the scrawny girl now, Sire?” Merlin said, exasperated but still amused. “Just get _on_ , Arthur. It’s like...a horse.”

Arthur eyed the contraption dubiously. “A horse?”

“Right. An _enchanted_ horse.”

“What, like a unicorn?”

“Yeah, exactly. And you remember what happened the last time you crossed wills with a unicorn.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “There was a labyrinth. And you were sad.”

“Exactly. Next to a _labyrinth_ , and having to _apologize_ , this’ll be dead easy.”

“I don’t see why you didn’t just bring actual horses,” Arthur muttered, swinging one leg awkwardly over the seat and straddling Merlin’s bum rather snugly. “Showing off, were we, _Mer_ lin? With your magical whatsits.”

Merlin laughed. “I’ll do anything to impress you, Sire. You know that.”

“Well, impress me by getting me to Camelot in once piece.”

Merlin’s stomach sank as he revved the engine. _Camelot._ “Right. Just. Hold on to me. Hold on tight.”

They took off at what Merlin considered a very reasonable speed--a downright crawl, really. But Arthur threw his heavily mailed arms around the thinner man’s chest as if drowning and grasping at a spindly, not particularly seaworthy, twig.

It hurt. Really hurt. Even hundreds of years spent languishing in the Summerlands hadn’t diminished the king’s legendary strength. It knocked the wind right out of him.

But even so, Merlin hadn’t felt so exhilarated in several centuries. Arthur clamped onto him like a living vise was the most affection he’d experienced, since...well. That was another story. He stepped on the gas, laughing aloud. His grin nearly split his face as Arthur yelled in his ear and clutched him tighter. Nearly broke his bloody eardrum, but it was worth it. Merlin’d waited 1600 years to hear Arthur Pendragon screaming like a girl. He was going to enjoy every painful second of it even if he had to be struck deaf for the pleasure.

A couple of dozy-faced tourists gawped at them open-mouthed as they whizzed by. Arthur’s crimson cape flared out behind them, the proper regalia of their rightful king if they but knew it. Merlin waved cheerily as the cameras began to flash. He knew they’d be nothing but a blur of red and gold.

 

It wasn’t far to the place where Camelot once stood.

Merlin used to walk to the Tor before he got the bike. But then, he realized it would be too hard to struggle home with Arthur if he was in a bad way after rising, and magic would only draw attention to them. So he’d fixed up the old wreck he’d found whilst scavenging in a ravine, and used magic to get it working again. The only magic he used now was to obscure the other drivers on the road from Arthur’s sight. The querulous motorcycle was more than enough for the recently dead legend to be going on with. He seemed to have taken it rather better than Merlin had hoped. It was a good bike. He patted the handlebar fondly. In his mind, he privately referred to it with great affection as Kilgharrah the Second. It was every bit as obstinate, scaley, and prone to breathing fire as the old dragon had been. And every Dragon Lord needs, well--a dragon. Wherever he could find one.

It had been a lonely time for Merlin, with few friends other than nostalgically personified rustbucket WWII relics. He’d most likely been going quite certifiably mad before Arthur appeared to him the night before last, and told him it was time. _Merlin. I’m hungry. My boots want polishing and my hair needs brushed. Where are you? At the tavern again?_ Ha. No. It hadn’t been quite like that. Actually, if it had--it might have been more convincing. Merlin had gone to the Tor riddled with trepidation, not actually sure Arthur would be there. Certain he had followed his own wishful fancy, as he’d done on several other occasions down the centuries.

But Arthur _had_ been there, appearing out of a mist that wasn’t a natural cloud of condensation. It was a _magical_ mist, disgorging a very unusual man indeed.

And all was well in England again. Or it would be, now.

The world flashed by in a whirling kaleidoscope of green on green. The tarmac was a dark ribbon unwinding. Somerset was so pastoral, still. Compared with much of Britain, it really hadn’t changed all that much. Merlin was hoping it wouldn’t be too much of a total shock to the young warrior’s system. Well, not a _fatal_ one, at any rate. Like being smack dab in the centre of London, a city to which Arthur had never been, even in his own time, when it was little more than abandoned Roman outpost. _Brighton_ would probably kill him, at this point. Though he thought Arthur would really enjoy the pleasure pier, once he’d settled down a bit and adjusted to life in the 23rd century. Britain was the world’s largest anachronism. It could pass for the 21st century, easily. It hadn’t changed as much as other places, because people wanted a place to go where they could play at being peasants and snap photos of ruins. The ruins of Arthur’s once glorious realm.

Merlin steeled himself as they came into sight of the Citadel.

What was left of it, at any rate.

Arthur, who had an excellent sense of direction and a spatial awareness that bordered on the supernatural, spasmed, crushing Merlin even closer against him. The slender man could barely breathe.

“Stop!” the king shouted into his other ear, damaging that one as well. He’d have to perform a healing spell on himself, at this rate.

Merlin pulled over, easing the bike to a gentle standstill.

Slowly, the king dismounted, leaning heavily on Merlin’s shoulder. He seemed to be in pain, pressing his hand against his side where a fatal wound once had been. There was still a telltale rent in the chain mail, and a rust-hued stain marring the glittering steel. The pain, Merlin knew, wasn’t a flesh wound, even a mortal one. It was soul-deep.

Arthur’s brow was crumpled, his eyes clouded with emotion. His lips curled back from his teeth in an animal grimace. Merlin had seen that expression before. It was one of deep, uncomprehending betrayal--and it cut the magician to the core.

The Once and Future King fell to his knees. He bowed his head, unable to look any longer. Merlin came silently to his side, and rested his hand gently on the silken crown of Arthur’s head. He smoothed the hair, raking his fingers through to scratch at the shaking man’s scalp, the way the king liked. It always helped him fall asleep. Now wasn’t the time for sleep, he knew. Now was the time to rise. But Merlin didn’t know what else to do. All of his magic, all of this power surging through him. None of it had prepared him for this level of grief. It was best simply to hold on to his king, and keep his head above the tide. _I won’t let you drown. Not this time. The tide won’t take you. It can have everything else--every shrub, every blade of grass. Every single tourist. But not you. Not ever again._

“Merlin,” Arthur breathed, his voice a rivulet of pain. “The Citadel. It’s...gone.”

Merlin nodded, stroking the suddenly vulnerable nape of Arthur’s neck. The skin there was so smooth, so taut. It was like silk over steel. The crimson cape fluttered in the breeze, like a gesture of farewell. The finely embroidered Pendragon crest glinted in the strengthening sun, unfaded by the centuries. As proud and inexorable as ever.

Slowly, wearily, Arthur reached up to press Merlin’s hand, which rested now on his shoulder. The king was still wearing his gloves. Merlin used his other hand to pluck the one that touched him, finger by finger, from Arthur’s hand. He peeled back the supple leather to reveal the tensile strength he knew well. The hand was pale, but golden. As a young Pendragon’s hand should be. The heavy ring on Arthur’s forefinger grazed Merlin’s knuckle as he laced his own knobby, pallid fingers through those of his friend. Their hands knotted together just as they’d always done. As if made to be one. As were the king and the sorcerer attached to them.

 _Two sides, Young Warlock....Two sides of the same coin._ _  
_

Unconsciously, as if by reflex, Arthur rolled Merlin’s hand in his, exposing the pale underside of wrist. He planted a soft kiss at the place where two blue veins intersected. Merlin’s pulse lept. He was certain Arthur could feel it. _He remembers. Gods! He remembers what we were to each other, long ago..._

Merlin’s hand went reflexively to his throat, where the worn red fabric he’d found secreted in Arthur’s armour was hidden beneath his overcoat. The king had worn it all these years. Merlin’s neckerchief. The scrap of homespun he’d unravelled from his skinny lover nightly for the all the years that had once seemed endless, charmed. Destined to go on forever.

The king had died with it against his heart.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they.”

It wasn’t a question. Desolation was steeped in every syllable of the statement that must be made, a bitter brew. Merlin would gulp down every drop, if he could.

Merlin’s heart, so full of passionate fire a second ago, deflated to its usual size, and then withered like a windfall apple. “Yes, sire.”

“How long?”

“Arthur, we don’t have to talk about this now--”

“ _How long_ , Merlin?”

The ancient man who shammed young sighed. “Sixteen hundred...”

“ _Days?_ Months, even? That’s not so--”

“Years.”

“Ah. Of course. With the Citadel in this state. I thought perhaps it had been razed. In the. Aftermath.”

“No, sire!” Merlin said, eager to tell some good news, for once. “Camelot prevailed. For a very long time, after....After. This is just...the natural order. It’s fallen gently to ruin over the years.”

“And you...stayed here. In Camelot. You watched it disintegrate.”

Merlin sank to his knees beside the bewildered king, still clasping tightly the hand that gripped his fiercely back. He looked deep into the blue, blameless eyes. “Every single tower, sire. Each and every stone, until all that was left of the Citadel is what you see--the battlements worn down to bare earth like ancient teeth. I could no more leave it than I could you, but that I was forced to.”

Arthur looked at him gravely for a few moments, searching his face for the gods only knew what signs. Then he leaned forward, and just as solemnly, kissed Merlin softly on lips that hadn’t been touched that way in many a long year. The warlock closed his eyes, sighing, simply receiving the kiss without demanding anything more.

“Thank you, Merlin.” Arthur said, for the second time in his life, once on either side of millennia. And it seemed to come easier now. He smiled, and it wasn’t a glad expression, but it was full of nameless tenderness. “Do you...live nearby?”

Merlin nodded, still dazed, a little bit drunk on physical contact with the man he’d dreamed of for so long. “I do. It’s not much, but I think, after where you’ve been, even a spoilt royal cabbage-head like you will be more than comfortable.”

“As long as I don’t have to sleep on a stone floor again,” Arthur groused, rising to stretch his back, wincing at the way it crackled like....well. Firecrackers. Aluminium foil. Bubble-wrap. Things he’d never seen nor heard.

Merlin snorted. “Ha. You didn’t even notice, so don’t give me that. You slept like a babe with your head in my lap while my old bones took the brunt of the bare stones--”

Arthur threw him a skeptical look. “Oh, don’t be such a _girl_ , Merlin. You’re _much_ younger than I am. Several years, at least.”

They bickered all the way to the bike. Arthur was so distracted he didn’t even bother kicking up a fuss as they mounted up and took off down the road, their battered steed bearing them faithfully home.


	4. Of Stone Crofts and Copper Tubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur arrives at his new home, doesn't complain about it's humbleness, makes a few confessions, is knocked off his feet, takes a bath, and knocks Merlin off his feet, too.

The tiny stone croft wasn’t visible from the motorway. In fact, it was hardly more visible from the mouth of the long, crooked lane that lead to it. It wasn’t an ordinary croft. It was imbued with magic deeper and more ancient than the earth itself. Merlin’s magic. The magician could smell it as clearly as he could his own clean sweat. This croft would withstand the end of the world itself, immune to aftermath.

“This is where you live?” Arthur asked, hesitating as they stood in the hidden grove and he took in the low, plain building.

Merlin shrugged. “Yeah, for awhile now. I built it myself.” _Out of the fallen stones of the Citadel._

“How long is ‘awhile’?”

“Oh, Gods. It must be...eight hundred years, now. I lived in a cave for a bit, after...” His eyes widened. _Oh, bloody hell. Will you just keep your trap shut, old man? Too much information. Isn’t that what the young ones say these days?_

But Arthur only looked at him, more curious than apprehensive. “After what?”

There was little point in shielding the king from the truth. Especially if it was one, deep down, he already knew. “After everyone else died.”

Arthur nodded politely, his eyes sliding away from Merlin’s face and back to the croft. _He’s in shock. He doesn’t really understand what’s happened. And maybe that’s a good thing, for now._

Merlin took Arthur’s hand, like the tall young man with the warrior’s stride was actually a small child who’d lost its mother in a crowded supermarket. “Come on. Let’s go in. You must be tired.”

“Tired?” Arthur shook his head. “I’ve been asleep for, what. A thousand years?”

“Longer,” Merlin told him. “But that’s not the kind of sleep you need. And you need to eat. And change your clothes. And--”

“Stop.” Arthur said, wearily. “Just. Leave me be, Merlin. One thing at a time.”

“Right. Sorry.”

He led Arthur to the heavy plank front door, and breathed a spell to release the one that protected the tiny house from unwelcome visitors as well as nuclear explosions, alien invasion, and an outbreak of the undead, among other disasters. Merlin pushed the door open and sighed as he was enveloped in the familiar scent of _home_. Rosemary and rue. Lavender and lemon balm.  Cloves and camphor. The astringent-herbal-apothecary smell that clings to all practitioners of the Old Religion, each in their own unique combination.

“It smells like...you.” Arthur said, smiling softly as they stepped inside the cool dimness. “Like the way your clothes always smelled when I used to pick them up and...” He blushed, pressing the backs of his fingers to his lips.

“And what?” Merlin said in a low voice, his heart fluttering as he gazed at his king through long, dark lashes.

“I used to like to press your clothes to my face and just...smell you. As you slept. After.”

Merlin blushed hotly, and then grinned, his whole face lighting up like a beacon. “I used to to the same thing, when I put your clothes away, or just before I washed them, while they were still all sweaty and streaked with mud. That’s when they smelled the best. Or in the morning, when you’d actually bothered wearing night-clothes...I’d undress you for your day. And. Yeah. Nearly asphyxiate myself sniffing your sleeves.”

They stared at each other, each man struggling to survive the sweetness of those long ago memories. They fell back on old habits, and burst out laughing. Arthur punched Merlin affectionately on the arm, and then ruffled his hair. “Gods. We had it _bad_.”

Merlin nodded, turning hastily away, lest the king see his expression. _And I still do. Always will, Arthur. Always..._

“Come in, Sire. You must be cold. I’ll light a fire.”

When Arthur wasn’t looking, because he was still shy, Merlin breathed a spell and gestured at the hearth. A merry blaze roared up, bathing the dim room in cheerful firelight. Merlin unbuttoned his coat, and hanged it on a peg. He ran his hand through his hair, which was ragged and much longer than it’d been in the old, first days of his youth, when he looked like his mother still cut it using a bowl for a guide. He’d never much worried about his appearance. He wasn’t a vain man. Nonetheless, he thought the longer hair might serve to cover his ears, which he’d never liked.

He turned around to face Arthur, who stood watching him quietly. “What is it you’ve got on, Merlin? It’s...sort of a bit strange. Though I can’t say why.”

Merlin looked down at himself. He’d dressed as plainly and as closely to something Arthur might recognize and accept as he could without looking like a Ren Faire reject. “Um, this is a cable-knit jumper,” he stroked the rough garnet-hued wool, holding a sleeved arm up for inspection. “Irish people make them. And the Scots do, as well. It really keeps the cold and damp out. I’ll give you one of mine--I’ve got loads. You’re going to need it.”

Arthur frowned, stroking the intricately knotted pattern. “Irish and...Scots? What are they?”

Merlin thought, rummaging through the cupboard of his mind. “People from...Dál Riata. In Pictland and...Ulster. I’ll get you a map, so you can see how it’s all changed, now.”

Arthur looked up quickly from examining Merlin’s tweed trousers and battered combat boots. “Changed? Does that mean this isn’t Albion any longer?”

Merlin hesitated. “Not exactly. We’re in Britain. In the England bit of the United Kingdom.”

Arthur smiled at that. “So we did it? We managed to unite the five kingdoms?”

Merlin reached out to rub a smudge of dirt from the king’s cheek. “Yeah. Course we did, dollop-head.” _For a time. And what a glorious time it was...._

Arthur nodded seriously. “Good. I...wouldn’t like to have. Died. In vain.”

Merlin turned his gesture of tidiness into one of tenderness, laying his palm against the flat of his friend’s face, stroking one finely-hewn cheekbone with his thumb. “No one has ever died less in vain than you did, Arthur Pendragon.  Never, ever doubt that.”

Arthur nodded, quiet again. He lost interest in Merlin’s peculiar clothes, and began to look around the croft. Merlin left him to his own devices, but kept an eye on him as he busied himself about several pressing tasks. He watched the king not so much to babysit him, but simply from the sheer wonderment of his existence. To glory quietly in what was the happiest day of Merlin’s long and anxious life. In the feeling that he hadn’t _lived_ in vain, any more than Arthur had died in it.

Arthur stood looking out of an ornate mullioned cathedral window--not the sort of architectural feature that usually graced such a humble building. “This is from the Citadel!” he exclaimed, patting the stone wonderingly. “From my actual chambers. I know, because I broke that pane of glass when I was a boy, and the mason wasn’t able to match the glass. It’s always been a bit too yellow.”

Merlin nodded as he stood at the cast-iron sink and began pumping water into a bucket. Arthur would need a bath. Wash the gravedust from his body. Scrub the loam from beneath his fingernails, so to speak. “Yeah. You’re right. Every stone and timber is from the Citadel. And...I chose that window because I wanted you to feel at home, here. When you. Came back.” _It’s the window I used to watch you from, training in the yard. The very panes of glass through which the moon gazed down on us as we lay in your bed, illumined by a light of our own making..._

Arthur scanned the room, taking in the drying racks from Gaius’s chambers, along with collections of now much too fragile to handle vials and beakers that held the residue of the old physician’s ancient potions. The walls were decorated with  crimson pennants emblazoned with the golden Pendragon and tapestries from the bedchambers of Camelot. The bed, which was Arthur's, stood centered in the single room with the headboard against the wall. It was spread in a coverlet stitched from the wall-hangings that had once kept the drafts at bay in Arthur’s own chambers. Candlesticks, sconces, storage boxes--all from Camelot. Everything as he’d remembered it. Merlin had curated it it all for this very moment. It was all very fine and beautiful. Each object emanating an aura of significance.

Except that everything looked...smaller here, in this humble stone building, with it’s slate floors and thatched roof. Merlin had enchanted all the things he took from the Citadel to make sure they were as well preserved now as they had been in Arthur’s day. The priceless relics gleamed. A silver water jug, bits of armour, Arthur’s heavily carved clothes cupboard. All of it was arranged in a comfortable, homey way, along with some of Merlin’s more modern possessions. If one could call an 18th century settee _modern_. Or a pair of Queen Anne wingchairs covered in William Morris upholstery--one of which had never been sat upon. It had been waiting for its rightful owner. And there was the five hundred year old Persian rug, over which Arthur was cheerfully trailing mud.

Merlin scowled, and then grinned, shaking his head. Back to his old tricks. Well, that was what magic was for. Every single thing in his home was protected against rot, filth, wear, and damage. Merlin didn’t own much, but what he did own, he wanted to keep. His eyes flashed gold, and the muddy prints disappeared, dispersed back into the mysterious, invisible world of particles and molecular structure. Magic was really little more than the recalibration of chemistry. So much of what he’d once thought was magic was really unknown science. Gaius would have been so pleased. An ache of loss flared up for a moment, thinking of the old physician, and then ebbed away again, leaving nothing but the sweetness of a cherished memory. Arthur was the only one of his old company whose loss had continued to torture Merlin with any regularity, and now that was all over. He could breathe again. He could live an actual _life_ , and not merely a dubious, drifting existence.

Not wishing to alarm his guest with too much sorcery, which he knew Arthur still regarded with a more than fair dose of mistrust, Merlin dragged the heavy copper tub out of its storage space beneath the long, battered oaken table (also from Gaius’s chambers) upon which he now prepared food, ate, and conducted his own scientific inquiries. He filled the tub manually with water from the pump, Arthur’s eyes bulging at the wonder of an indoor water supply in such an otherwise incommodious dwelling.

Merlin had deliberately kept his dwelling as rustic as possible. He liked it that way, for one thing. For another, he wanted the risen king, when he finally rolled his oversleeping arse out of the grave, to feel safe and secure in his new home.

For the house had never been for Merlin alone. It was the place he built for his king, stone by stone. Sometimes using magic--but most of the time, the sweat of his back and straining of his wiry arms providing the muscle. He’d been proud to do it. Building the croft was one of the most rewarding tasks of his long life. It was a labour of love. Seeing how easily Arthur blended into the backdrop of stone and tapestry, as if he belonged there, made Merlin’s heart swell.

“This is...pleasant.” the king said, nodding. “Simple, but there’s something about it. It feels...like home.”

Merlin turned his face, ostensibly to shield Arthur from the flash of gold as he warmed the water up with magic to the perfect temperature. But his eyes were prickling with tears, and his heart convulsed erratically. _Gods. If I could die, this man would surely be the death of me. A single kind word and I'm a puddle on the ground._  “Thank you, Sire.”

He went to the king and lifted away the gorget yoking his shoulders. He skillfully teased open the arm-straps that held the rerebrace in place, his fingers falling to the task as though he’d only performed it yesterday. Arthur removed his own vambraces as Merlin worked at the leather and buckles that were surprisingly still supple. The armour fell to the floor with a clang. Arthur winced, working his shoulder in a circular motion. “Gods, that feels better,” he said. “I was beginning to feel as though I was _made_ of armour, and not a man at all.”

 _Oh, you’re a man, alright,_ Merlin thought, unbuckling Arthur’s wide leather belt and tossing it aside. _No man has ever been more so._ He drew the hauberk over Arthur’s torso as the king bent forward, his arms raised out.

There was no weight like that of chainmail. It was heavy, yes. But it was also...slinky. Sinuous. It slid like quicksilver in the hands, over the skin. There was a sensuality to it that never failed to rouse Merlin. Perhaps because it spoke so clearly of _Arthurness_. Of everything the man was, and stood for. The king’s hauberk was his own gleaming skin. His rerebrace and gauntlets were his very arms. He wasn’t half-wrong when he said he felt like he was made of armour. The glittering metal was imbued with his very essence, with everything he was. And it was in a pile at their feet, leaving the man who lived within it naked in a way most people never experienced. Vulnerable in ways that made Merlin’s heart ache and his body scream out to shield him.

Merlin slowly unlaced the red quilted jupon that cushioned Arthur’s body, his eyes never leaving his king’s face. The two men gazed at each other wordlessly as the padded garment fell away, joining the rest of the king’s knightly accoutrements on the floor. Arthur kicked off his boots, and bent to peel away his heavy woollen socks. His toes stretched and curled gratefully on the carpet, and he emitted another contented sigh of relief. He was nearly nude, now. Only his breeches and fine linen shirt remained, already unlaced at the throat, revealing taut, golden skin that shone with a gleam of perspiration.

Why was he sweating? Was he, too, as nervous as Merlin? He couldn’t be. For him, it had only been a day. One very long, dreamless day since he’d last been clasped in the arms of his lover and servant. For Merlin, the days had been endless. And full of dreams. All of them of Arthur. Of this moment. Or of this moment never arriving--the worst nightmare Merlin had ever known. But the moment had come. It was now. He wanted to live in it forever.

He could hardly believe that it had happened. That Arthur was here, standing before him, only a few scraps of linen shielding his glorious flesh from Merlin’s eyes.

“I can manage the rest, Merlin,” he said, quietly, his deep blue eyes never wavering from Merlin’s face. “Thank you.”

Merlin shook his head. “You don’t have to keep...thanking me. It isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but it is,” the king said, reaching out to grasp him by the arm. “It always _was_. I was just too foolish, too arrogant, to see it.” Merlin’s face flooded with colour as he stared down at the strong, masculine hand gripping his blade-thin forearm. “I owe you my life, Merlin. Many times over.”

Merlin shook his head, tears blinding him. He couldn’t look into Arthur’s face. “You owe me your _death_ , you mean.”

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur growled, “Never say that! _Never_.” He dragged the weeping man roughly against his chest, wrapping him in arms strong as steel girders. His arms could hold up the whole world. His arms _had_ held up a whole world, for a time. Merlin’s world. The world of Camelot. The entire realm of Albion. “I won’t have you blaming yourself for my death. It’s my life, Merlin--my _life_ you should take credit for. I’d never have lasted a minute without you. I know that now, and I will never let you forget it, as I will not.”

Merlin couldn’t speak. He pressed his hot face against Arthur’s neck, inhaling his scent, his nose and lips nuzzling the hollow at the base of his long ago lover’s throat. If he could make himself very small, as small as a fieldmouse, he would curl up there forever. The king’s arms came round him, crushing him against the mighty sternum only a blade tempered in a dragon’s breath had ever pierced. Merlin slid his hands up over the keel of Arthur’s ribs, trembling as he clung to the man for whom he’d waited through a hundred wars, a thousand shifts in culture and government that meant so little to him he barely paid attention. All the nightmares. All the weeping. All the terror. Every moment of crippling loneliness as he stared down the bleak barrel of years upon years walking the land he loved alone. It had been worth every seemingly endless moment. For _this_ moment made it all seem so...insignificant. Like he hadn’t paid price enough for the richness of his reward.

He felt before understanding what was happening the tugging of his jumper as Arthur attempted to wrench it over his head. “Ow! My ears!” he said, wriggling free of the swathes of rough Shetland wool. “Arthur, what the bloody hell are you _doing_?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m undressing you.” Arthur smirked. “Or has it really been so long that you don’t remember what it feels like?”

 _Too bloody right, it’s really been that long._ “Oh, I re _mem_ ber,” Merlin groused, rubbing his offended appendages. “You were always totally _crap_ at undressing, yourself included. Too bloody impatient.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened, his smirk deepening as he unwound the pilfered neckerchief from Merlin’s throat, apparently unaware of its provenance. “I don’t remember you complaining about what came _after_. Especially _when_ I was impatient.”

Merlin’s knees nearly buckled, and he slammed a hand down on the table to steady himself before he swooned like a maiden in front of Arthur, who was again preoccupied by Merlin’s attire.

“What on earth is that?” he inquired haughtily, fingering the threadbare item.

“Ehm, a t-shirt?” Merlin replied, looking down. _Gods. He might have picked a nicer one. This one looked as though it had been eaten by a particularly vindictive tribe of moths._ “I was in a bit of a hurry yesterday morning.”

Arthur raised an imperious eyebrow. “Always the excuses, Merlin. Take it _off_.”

Merlin obeyed, nearly tearing the offending garment in his hurry to get it as far away from Arthur’s sight as possible. In that spirit, he threw it clear across the room. He was surprised it hadn’t simply gone up in flames due to his mortification. To distract the king from his displeasure, Merlin nodded at him with a smirk of his own. “Now you.”

But the king was no longer paying attention.

He was staring at Merlin’s chest as if mesmerized. Merlin began to blush self-consciously. And then he realized.

He was wearing the Royal Seal of Camelot on a strip of leather round his neck. He’d worn it so long, it had become a part of him, weighing no more heavily on his body than his own arm, or his navel. He grasped it in hand, measuring the familiar density of the heavy bronze ring. Slowly, he drew it over his head, and dropped it into Arthur’s oddly hesitant hand. “It’s yours. I’ve...kept it for you. For this moment.”

Arthur handled the seal gravely, stroking the Pendragon sigul with the pad of his thumb. Then he took it by the strap, and replaced it, dropping it back over Merlin’s head. “You keep it for me,” he said, lightly. “You’re good at carrying things I might lose.”

Merlin smiled, stroking the precious object lovingly. He’d always worn it with pride, with such infinite care. It felt like a part of his own body. “I will, Sire. Just say the word, and it’s back in your hand.”

He reached out then, and pulled the linen shirt roughly over Arthur’s head. “Come on, get in the bath. You _reek_ of the grave.”

“Liar! I _don’t_.” Arthur said, voice muffled in his shirt as he dropped his breeches at the same time, nimbly stepping out of them and kicking them away. “Well, and so what if I do? At least I don’t stink of _mothballs_.”

Tangled in his own trousers, Merlin gave him a shove. A little too enthusiastic a shove, truth be told. Arthur fell backwards into the tub, sloshing water all over the floor, and, what was worse--dragging Merlin with him in the water that was a smidge too hot for the warlock’s liking. Arthur did always like his baths unreasonably warm. Merlin yelped as though he was being scalded alive, sputtering and coughing up water. Arthur grabbed him round the neck and helpfully scrubbed his face with a flannel, nearly suffocating him as Merlin pushed desperately at his attacker's slick chest.

Very little had changed, he saw. Arthur’s idea of foreplay was _still_ very nearly breaking every bone in Merlin’s body during a rousing bout of horseplay.

Merlin loved every minute of it, of course.

They washed each other thoroughly with the goats-milk and calendula soap Merlin made himself, soaping armpits and scrubbing backs with unconscious familiarity. They knew each other’s bodies like countries to which they didn’t need a map. The bony outposts of Merlin’s knees crested the water like lost islands. Arthur’s biceps bulged and his forearms rippled. Arthur soaped Merlin’s hair roughly, his strong fingers all but crushing the warlock’s skull. Merlin leaned into the friction, enjoying the way Arthur handled him like nothing could ever break him.

“Why is your hair so long, Merlin?” he demanded, twisting a sopping strand between his fingers. “It’s a bit _girly_ , don’t you think?”

Merlin shrugged peaceably, sinking back in the water to rest his head against the rim of the tub, his eyes drooping closed. Gods, he was tired. He hadn’t slept a wink in two days. “Lots of men wear their hair long, Arthur. Have done for some time, barring a few of the more puritan time periods. And besides. It covers my ears.”

“But I like your ears,” the king said softly, sliding forward to fondle a lobe between his fingers.

Merlin’s eyes flew open, incredulous. “Really? But you always made fun of them. Said you were going to stick me on a boat in place of a mast and rigging, and sail me across the North Sea.”

“Well, certainly, that’s what I _said_ , Merlin.” Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically. “You can’t have expected me to own the truth, now, could you?”

Merlin leaned forward, fascinated. “Which was?”

Arthur smiled sweetly, blushing hotly, which was quite a feat in the concealing heat of the bath. “That your ears are as intricate and lovely as a pair of seashells washed up on the beach from an exotic land.”

Merlin’s eyes widened still further. He was incredulous. “But, sire!” he stammered. “That’s--well. Dangerously close to _poetry_!”

“I know, idiot. That’s why I never said.”

“So why are you saying it now?”

Arthur gazed at him in a way that made Merlin’s skin prickle, every hair stood to attention. Even his _cock_ stirred to life. He clamped it modestly between his thighs, lest he seem as eager as he was.

“Well,” the king said softly. “Now seems like a perfect time for poetry, don’t you think?”

Merlin swallowed, and nodded, unable to speak.

Arthur crouched in the tub and then stood up, water pouring from him as if he was the statue of a god presiding over a sacred fountain. Merlin gazed up at him, wanting nothing so much as to be bid to lick him dry.

The king must have read his mind. “Get me a towel, Merlin. _Please_.” he amended, gracious at long last. “And then, after we’re both dry, I want you to take me to bed.” His commanding tone softened. He continued hoarsely, "I..need you to make me feel real. Alive, again. Do you understand?"

Merlin tried to breathe, but found he couldn’t. “Yes, Sire,” he said. Arthur held out a hand and pulled the trembling magician to his feet.  

 


	5. A Song of Lovers of Long Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin go back to bed, after a 1600 year hiatus. Tenderness ensues, tempered with the usual hilarity.

Their bodies were, as they always had been, a study in contrasts. Scrawny and brawny. Ivory and bronze. Magic and Might. They were like opposing chess pieces that had somehow collided, forming an unforeseen and illegal alliance. They broke every rule and made a brand new game of every adventure, none more so than the ones they played in bed.

But this. This was no game. It was so much more than bed-play.

They sat in the centre of the feather tick, face to face, Merlin kneeling between Arthur’s splayed legs.“It’s alright, Merlin,” the king said in a low voice. “Touch me. Please.”

“I’m scared,” the magician said.

“Of me?”

“No. Of. Me.”

Arthur took Merlin’s hand and guided gently it to his chest. “I’m not.”

Merlin’s hand shook as he stroked the taut flesh over Arthur’s heart. He’d always liked that spot best. He could feel the king’s pulse thrumming beneath his palm like a great, silent drum, gathering strength towards some fateful crescendo.

The last time he’d placed his palm there was to feel it stop. The despair he’d felt when his own stubbornly went on beating was something for which the warlock would never find words. He kept it locked away inside of himself, to be shared with no one, not even the man in front of him. It seemed he was fated to keep secrets.

Dowsing for Arthur’s pulse brought forth the same feeling he got when walking barefoot over sacred ground. He could feel the power and life and majesty of the earth coursing through him. It renewed his magic, touching flesh to earth.

Laying his hands on Arthur did the same thing.

It revived every sleeping particle within him until Merlin was literally vibrating with power. Arthur was soul-dialysis. Merlin had to fight the magic that was welling up inside of him lest it burst out in a geyser of brilliant golden light and engulfed them both, burning their flesh away until they were nothing but pure spirit. That time might come, but it wasn’t now. They had a long life to live together, the king and his sorcerer.

Merlin leaned forward and tasted Arthur’s lips, sipping at them as if from a sacred chalice. The king’s lips parted with a soft murmur that sounded like Merlin’s name, but he couldn’t be sure. He swallowed the sound, deepening his kiss, swirling his tongue against Arthur’s, all of his bashfulness melting away. These lips were _his_. He’d been the lover in the prince’s bed long before he’d become king, before he’d loved and married Gwen, and their liaisons were relegated to furtive fumblings in airing cupboards, or hastily snatched half-hours in Merlin’s tiny bedchamber while Gaius slept the sleep of the innocent in the front room. The best nights were when Arthur and Merlin went off on their own on some quest requiring only the two of them. Merlin’s lifelong fondness for sleeping out of doors had its roots in those wild, star-filled nights in the forests and fields of Camelot. The home he loved and for which he would long for all of his days.

But now, he had Camelot back. Arthur’s body _was_ Camelot. The sleek foothills and valleys of burnished bronze flesh. The angled lintels of his teeth as they bit down on the gristle of Merlin’s shoulder. The silky tangle of hair at the back of the stalwart column of neck was no less golden than the summer wheat that had once sustained an entire kingdom. Merlin thrust his fingers deep into that remembered thicket, pulling Arthur’s neck back, his throat gleaming with the sweat that sprang so easily to the surface of his skin. Merlin bent his head, running his tongue against the rasp of what seemed to be only a day-old growth of stubble, though he’d last shaved the king over a millenium and a half ago.

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned. “ _Merlin_.” He grasped his servant by the hips, pulling him closer until Merlin was straddling the king’s straining flanks, twice the size and easily five times the strength of Merlin’s, without the help of his magic. Their cocks slid together, pinioned between their bodies as they writhed and clawed at each other, trying to get closer to each other, as close as two separate bodies can be.

Merlin was burning from the inside. He felt as though the desire Arthur awakened in him had turned molten. He was afraid to speak a single word. If he did, he would spout nothing but the ancient, dread language of the Dragon Lord. Gods only knew what such incantations would summon, in a world without dragons.

Arthur pushed the lank growth of Merlin’s hair back and found an earlobe with his teeth. As he nibbled and suckled, Merlin’s eyes flashed gold, and his hair receded back to a reasonable length, still shaggy but by no means long.

“Better,” Arthur growled, pushing his fingers up the nape of Merlin’s neck and stroking the raven hair roughly. “I can see you now. Gods, Merlin. You’re so bloody _beautiful_.”

Merlin’s head swam, heady with the praise. He’d never once heard Arthur say such a thing. The king had never been verbally demonstrative. It had taken him years to say thank you, let alone anything so incriminating as telling Merlin he was beautiful. If the king ever said _I love you_ , Merlin would probably expire on the spot.

But the thing was, he didn’t _need_ to hear it. Any more than he needed to say it. He already knew. He always had. And he was a patient man. He would wait as long as it took for Arthur Pendragon to declare himself. And if he never did, Merlin would accept that. Just as he accepted Arthur’s implicit need never to hear him say such a thing himself. There had been good reasons for that, the first time around. And now...now Merlin would wait and see. And love Arthur as fiercely as ever, without having to say a word.

They kissed as though making up for a lifetime, even though for Arthur it’d only been a day. But the way he moaned into Merlin’s mouth, plunging his tongue deeper, digging his fingers harder into the bones that made up Merlin’s body, it was as if he also had felt the ache of a thousand years and counting. As if it was his nightmare, too, they were chasing away. The nightmare of darkness, and a cold, relentless void. Merlin could taste death on him. And he wanted to burn it away.

They kissed with their eyes open, fingers entwined above them as they lay side-by-side against the pillows, their legs tangled together like the knotwork on Merlin’s discarded jumper. Arthur dragged Merlin’s free hand to his face, stroking his own jaw with Merlin’s well-shaped fingertips. He braceleted Merlin’s wrist with his own strong fingers, pressing his thumb against the magician’s pulse until it ached.

Merlin traced the curve of the king’s lower lip with his thumb, pressing the plush flesh until Arthur took the marauding digit into his mouth, sucking and nipping until Merlin was shivering, the king’s deep eyes never leaving the warlock’s face. He wondered what Arthur tasted on him. Something much worse than death. The tang of a life dragging on. The sour flavour of age. Perhaps he tasted the bouquet of his own fatal wound, iron tinged with loam. Certainly Merlin had carried particles of it beneath his fingernails all these long years. They were his talisman. His touchstone against despair, and also the source of it.

It reminded him of a song he’d listened to on repeat, of late. Music was the one thing in which he’d always kept up with the rest of the world as it moved on, endlessly cycling and revolving. He was still haunted by the harmonious lilting of 16th century madrigals. The flutter and slow build of Canon and Gigue in D Major. The deep pelvic rhythms of 1930s Harlem Jazz. Music had never stopped making sense to him. And so much of what was being made now mimicked other eras so perfectly, and with such an aching sense of longing, that Merlin wasn't quite so alone in feeling out of place in a world that had long passed him by. There were others who felt the same way.

As he kissed his long ago lover langourously, he began to hum the song that had been hounding him. Arthur smiled, and rolled over so that Merlin was pressing him down to the mattress with as much of his meagre weight as he could muster.

And then, something odd and lovely happened.

The song began to play softly, the crackle and hiss of Merlin’s turntable filling the tiny croft with a ghostly sighing. The stereo was his one modern luxury, which he powered not with electricity, as he had none, but with magic, because it was the only power-source he needed. Arthur jolted in Merlin’s arms, eyes wide and startled.

“What is that, Merlin?” he gasped, his eyes darting about, his hand groping for some long mislaid weapon.

“Shhhh, Arthur, it’s okay,” he said soothingly, stroking the king’s chest and pushing him back down. “It’s just music.”

“Yes, but _where is it coming from_? I see no minstrels about, unless they’re serenading us from outside the window.”

Merlin smiled, trying to reign in his amusement. “No, see. It’s...well. It’s like magic, really.”

Arthur didn’t look in the least comforted, though he did his best to mask the expression of distaste that invaded his features. He lay slowly back, appearing to listen guardedly to the gentle strumming of acoustic guitar and the occasional chiming of a delicate bell. The singer’s voice was sweet and rough, melodic in a way the king would never have heard before. As Arthur listened to what to him was little more than an apparition of sound, Merlin slid his tongue down the expanse of golden torso, still humming along as he took Arthur’s cock into his mouth.

The king’s muscles trembled as he relaxed into the pillows, his arm flung over his eyes. Merlin suckled at the swollen tip, gently at first, and then more insistently, watching the changes come over Arthur’s face as though he was gazing at the wash of purple across a dawn sky for signs of the day to come.

The song played on an endless loop as Merlin brought his lost lover to the brink and then eased him back again, over and over, until the king looked ready to scream or explode. Merlin was hoping for both. The sound of the music seemed to be emanating from the very walls, from Merlin himself. His whole body vibrated with it.

_I have buried you_

_Every place I’ve been....._

_You keep ending up_

_In my shaking hands...._

Arthur fisted the sheets, his other hand buried in the ebony tangles of Merlin’s hair. He tugged gently, and then less so as he crested his climax again, staring desperately down into Merlin’s eyes as if asking for permission to let go.

Merlin was flooded with memory.

All of those sultry nights on the battlements, barking his shins on undressed stone, Arthur splayed above him, bathed in moonlight. The nights they had destroyed the carefully pressed bedclothes with their writhing. Merlin remembered the time they’d actually ripped a pillow in half, an explosion of feathers blanketing them as they laughed uproariously, creating a few equally messy explosions of their own. Arthur never knew that Merlin had always soundproofed the room. They were loud lovers, exuberant, demanding.

Nothing had changed.

Watching Arthur’s face as he teased and tortured the pleasure out of him, Merlin rubbed the sensitive patch of flesh just beneath Arthur’s testicles, a little gesture that had never failed to send him careening over the brink.

Now was no exception. Arthur’s mouth fell open and then tightened into his familiar grimace as he came into Merlin’s mouth, his beautiful face distorted by a glorious rictus of pleasure so intense it looked like pain. He laced his fingers into Merlin’s, holding fast as they rode the wave of his climax. Merlin swallowed every salted drop as if some life-giving elixir had replaced Arthur’s seed. Which was it had always seemed like to Merlin, so perhaps that’s what it really was. He _had_ lived an amazingly long time, after all. Who could guess what magic lurked in the pearlescent fluids of the Once and Future King? Merlin certainly suspected he knew. He had drunk of them enough.

As he wrung every last shudder out of Arthur, Merlin’s own cock pulsated in sympathy, aching with need. He ignored it, kissing and nuzzling Arthur on the silken skin of his inner thigh, the tendons still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure. Arthur’s fingers continued to rake through the tousled mop of Merlin’s freshly shorn hair, swirling it into ridiculous horns that would never brush out. He’d have to dampen them down or use magic to return them to a state of no-more-ridiculous-than-usual.

Merlin clambered up over Arthur’s body to collapse with his ear against the king’s heaving, sweat-streaked chest. As suddenly as it had come, the music faded gently away, returning to the croft to dreamy silence as Arthur’s heart-rate slowed to normal. There was no sound more beautiful. No music could ever compare with or do it justice. In Merlin’s head, the music went on. It was the song that he played when he wanted Arthur, when he wanted it to be time for him to return to the arms that held him as he died that long summer ago.

_I have buried you_

_Every place I've been..._

_You keep ending up_

_Every place I am..._

Arthur’s fingers traced lazy spirals over Merlin’s back, and the magician’s eyelids began to droop. He’d never been able to stay awake long when Arthur did that. “Gods, Merlin--” he said hoarsely. “That was. Bloody _hell_. For the worst servant, ever, in the history of the world, you’ve always had other, more impressive talents, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m probably not,” Merlin contradicted, with a massive yawn.

“Not what?”

“The worst servant, ever, in the history of the world. I mean, the world has gone on since you were last in it. Loads more servants have been born, lived, and died. I’m sure some of them were much more crap than me.”

Arthur tilted Merlin’s chip up so so he could gaze down at him with one eyebrow raised. “ _Mer_ lin. Need I remind you of the dropping-my-breeches-in-the-middle-of-a-war-council-meeting incident?"

“Oh, that?” Merlin stretched, settling himself more comfortably in the hollow of Arthur’s shoulder. “No, I meant to do that. I was stealing your keys.”

Arthur struggled to sit up, but Merlin elbowed him back down again. “ _Stealing_ my _keys_?”

“Yeah. For...well, it doesn’t matter now. And besides, you never protested when I dropped your breeches on any other occasion.”

Arthur sputtered, clearly about to launch into a kingly tirade, but Merlin stopped his mouth with another kiss. The sort of kiss that made surly kings’ heads soften to cabbage.

A little while later, their blood up and flooding bits of them that had very little to do with brains, Arthur looked deep into Merlin’s eyes. “Your turn,” he said. “And. I want you to do something. _Different_. Something we’ve never done before. If you...want.”

“What is it, Arthur?” Merlin’s heart began to beat painfully in his chest as he wracked his momentarily useless brain for a position or a scenario they’d never tried.

“I want you inside of me.”

Merlin tried not to look surprised. But he was completely sideswiped by the suggestion. It wasn’t that Arthur was some kind of tyrant in bed, but he had always been...masterful. It was part of who he was, in all aspects of his life. And Merlin had never minded. He enjoyed every moment of riding the royal lance, so to speak. It had just seemed... _right_. For both of them. Merlin had never felt put upon. The king had been as talented with his cock as he had with his sword. Not to mention his tongue, which he had always lavished on Merlin quite as much as the warlock had returned the favour. Being ridden or being the one to do the riding had always seemed like an insignificant detail, not a matter of subservience.

But things were different now. In ways even Arthur seemed to realize, though he’d only just arrived back in Merlin’s arms. Merlin had certainly changed, over the years. All of the transitions had been painful, and gradual, especially without Arthur by his side. He looked deep into his lover’s eyes, and saw an uncertainty there. A shy sort of eagerness to please Merlin, instead of the more familiar smug assurance that, yes, _too bloody right_ , he had. Which, was, of course, entirely accurate. He was as generous a lover as he was a friend, despite his occasional dollop-headedness.

“I’m...different, now,” the king went on, when Merlin remained silent, simply staring into his eyes. “Everything is. And. I want to do things differently. With you.”

Arthur traced the prominent convex of Merlin’s cheekbone, and the magician turned his face into the broad palm. He kissed it deeply, licking the calluses that set his skin alight. Arthur sighed, falling back against the cushions, cock standing to attention. “Do you have...er. Something to--” he asked hoarsely, as Merlin nudged his knees apart.

Merlin smiled, and, because Arthur had laid himself so bare to him, he did the same. He allowed his eyes to flash gold before the king’s very face. To his credit, Arthur only paled slightly as the flask of oil flew across the room and into Merlin’s waiting hand. He thumbed the cork from the glass vial, and the scent of lavender and lemongrass flooded their senses. Arthur’s eyes dilated as he recognized the familiar melange. “Our old formula,” Merlin confirmed, with a saucy grin. “I’ve always kept some about the place for when I.... _missed_ you.”

Arthur smirked self-importantly, snatching the bottle away. “Went through a lot of this stuff, did you? _Barrels_ full, I’m guessing.” Before Merlin could formulate a coherent retort, Arthur had drizzled a generous amount of the fragrant lubricant over Merlin’s cock, and was slathering it all over, from stem to bulb. Merlin grabbed the flask back, and serviced Arthur as well, making sure he was slick and ready for what he’d asked Merlin to do. He slid a finger inside, working the oil in as far as he could. Arthur groaned, swearing as he ground against Merlin’s hand.

He didn’t need to ask if the king was sure, if he was ready.

Nor did he need to ask himself if _he_ was.

Other than Arthur coming home, Merlin had never been more ready for anything in his life.

Kissing Arthur into the pillow, he held the king’s hands together above his head, allowing strength he didn’t possess on his own to flood him until his grip was like a vise. Arthur’s appreciative growl let him know without having to ask that it was _more_ than okay. Pressing the muscular thighs apart, Merlin slid into Arthur up to the hilt.

He almost came right then.

Somehow Merlin managed to stave off the pleasure that threatened to engulf and carry him away. He could always use magic to withhold his own climax. But he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to love Arthur as plain, old Merlin, not as the sorcerer. He wanted magic to unite them, not to separate them even further.

He moved slowly, slowly--his strokes even and deep, plunging in and out with increasing intensity. Gods, he’d never felt anything so pleasurable in his life. The sleek heat of Arthur’s body enclosing him in an envelope of warmth. He was so _tight_. So slick with oil and the fluid leaking from Merlin’s cock.

He’d been with another man once before, a long time ago. There had been love there, too. But it was of a different sort. He’d still dreamed of Arthur. Nothing had ever erased the need he felt when he thought of the dead king. But the man who’d loved him several centuries before had certainly made the long nights less so. Had filled Merlin with contentment and joy. He would never forget him. He loved him still, and always would.

But this.

This was something else, altogether.

This was destiny calling him home.

He rolled over onto his back urging Arthur to take the top position without disconnecting their bodies or slowing their rhythm.

The young king arched his back, his haunches straining as he bucked up and down. His hands gripped Merlin’s arse as he urged the thinner man to meet him halfway. Merlin took Arthur by the cock, which was sleek with the same fragrant stuff that squelched between them. Not that either of them paid any mind to the various sounds emanating from their bodies. Each was too intent on the other’s pleasure.

Merlin stroked his king into a lather while careering towards his own impending climax. He closed his eyes, so that his only sensation was the weight of Arthur grinding down on him, and the heat gathering low in his groin, droplets of sweat raining down on his chest to mingle with his own.

He began to feel light--so light. As if neither one of them weighed anything at all. They were connected in their very centres of gravity, and all else slid away. Merlin couldn’t even feel the tumble of bedclothes beneath him, or the plush give of the mattress. Arthur was the only solid thing that existed, and Merlin was helpless in his orbit.

“Um, Merlin-- _Merlin_!” Arthur’s panicky voice broke through Merlin’s fugue state, his movements suddenly erratic and _clumsy_ , as odd as it was to associate that word with the perfectly poised warrior. “What in the gods’ names is _happening_?”

Merlin’s eyes sprang open just in time to prevent Arthur’s head from bashing into one of the rafters.

He didn’t know how long it had been going on--both he and Arthur were more than a little bit distracted--but Merlin had been _levitating_ the pair of them, carried away on waves of his own pleasure.

Both of their bodies hummed, infused with magic so intense that Arthur’s eyes had turned from the usual limitless blue to a shade of pale gold. The king clutched at Merlin’s shoulders, wrapping his trembling legs in a death-grip around the warlock’s hips, clearly completely unnerved.

Merlin laid a steadying hand on his rippling abdomen, willing calmness on the frightened man. “Arthur,” he said in a commanding voice, low and certain in a way completely different from the king’s own masterful tone. “It’s okay. It won’t hurt you. Just. Go with it, okay?” He grinned reassuringly, giving Arthur a pinch as he slowly resumed their previous rhythm. “You asked for something different. Well, this is it.”

Arthur laughed shakily, and then, for the second time in as many days, did as he was told. He rocked tentatively at first, clearly certain Merlin would lose concentration or strength and drop him on his arse. But when it was clear that wouldn’t be happening, he regained confidence, riding the slender magician like he was the steed and Arthur the reigning champion in a sex-melee.

When Merlin finally came, he nearly blacked out. “Oh, _Gods_.” he cried out, a low, long moan escaping his mouth. “ _Arthur_.” It went on and on. He felt as if everything he was, all he had inside of him was spilling into the golden man who shuddered above him, coming just as furiously as Merlin’s hand urged him to the edge. He spilled his seed across Merlin’s chest, some of it landing in the magician’s black hair as if he had gone partially white. Again.  

Arthur swore deliciously under his breath, falling forward onto Merlin’s chest, sliding over his own fluids. They came crashing down as suddenly as they’d risen. The bed collapsed beneath their combined weight, all of the strength gone out of Merlin. He couldn’t have sustained their weightlessness a single solitary moment longer.

“Um, _ow_!” Merlin complained, shoving Arthur’s knee out of his ribs. “You’re _really_ bloody heavy! I’d forgotten. Not to be indelicate, but could you please get _off_ of me?”

Arthur obliged with a grin, rolling over onto the other half of the destroyed bedstead, their skin squelching apart as if they’d been glued together. “Gods,” he said. “That was bloody _fantastic_! How dare you hold out on me for so long!”

“Well, you’re the one who always has to be on top--apparently even when you’re the one being shagged.”

“What’s _shagged_?” Arthur asked comfortably.

Merlin was about to give him a cheeky reply when the king’s heavy arm slammed against him, pinning him to the mattress and gripping his arm painfully.

“Arthur, bloody hell!”

“ _Mer_ lin!” he yelled, scrambling up to crane his neck at something on the other side of the room. “Will you look at the bloody _window_?”

Merlin lifted his head, looked, and then fell back, laughing helplessly. “Well, that’s _definitely_ something different!”

Every leaded pane of glass had shattered. The floor was a kaleidoscope of broken colour. A tiny bird perched on one of the empty mullions and peered in at them. It scolded them fiercely, and then flew away in a strop.

Merlin laughed even harder at the ridiculous look on Arthur’s face. “And that--that’s bloody _priceless_. Where’s a camera when you need one?”

“Merlin, I have no idea what you’re talking about, as usual.” Arthur said, getting shirty. “ It’s _freezing_ in here. What are we going to do about the draft?”

Merlin smirked, and spoke a few choice strings of incomprehensible words as his eyes flashed gold. He allowed himself a flourish of the hand as well, for dramatic effect.

The glass flew back to its casing like a lethal cloud of shimmering butterflies. The bed shifted and groaned beneath them before rearticulating itself. The fire rekindled in the hearth, crackling merrily as Merlin drew the bedcovers up to tuck round his exhausted king.

“There. Better?”

Arthur looked at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher. He started to get a little worried until, finally, the king spoke. “Merlin, you are a wonder,” he pronounced. And kissed him breathless as music began to fill the room.

_You keep ending up_

_Every place I've been_

_In my shaking hands_

_Every place I am..._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is comforted by the idylls of country life, but the old fire stirs inside him. The old bonds are made new, reforged in a crucible he cannot deny. There are some circles even death cannot break.

Being dead hadn’t hurt. Even dying itself wasn’t really that bad. But coming back to life was agony.

Arthur hadn’t told Merlin that bit. He’d borne it stoically, like a Knight of Camelot. Like a king should.

Only he wasn’t a king anymore, was he?

No. All of that was over. As dead and gone as he had been.

Of course, Merlin would argue that he certainly hadn’t been as dead and gone all all of that. He’d risen from waters that no longer existed, his body as uncorrupted as the flesh of a demi-god. He hadn’t died the way ordinary mortals were meant to.

Arthur didn’t remember being born, but he felt like knew what it was to give birth to his own body. His own being. A terrible tearing pain. Bloodless, but ecstatic. He remembered only intense light burning away the mist. And Merlin’s voice, calling to him. He couldn’t even open his eyes. Not at first. He could only sleep without dreaming, his body propped up by the land he loved. Enveloped in the familiar warmth and scent of the man he once thought he knew beyond all others.

He’d been wrong.

That was what hurt the most. Not the moment when Mordred had pierced him through with a blade as strong as his own. Not the wound that barely bled, even as it drained his life away, a shard of immoveable metal slowly entering his heart.

No.

What hurt Arthur the most was discovering that he didn’t know Merlin at all. That for all of his kingliness, Arthur was small and weak next to Merlin’s greatness. That the sorcerer had been shielding him all along, like an indulgent parent, while he played at soldiers. A tin man in a cape.

And then, after three agonizing days, the last he would ever spend with the man he loved, it had all been over.

The ribbon of water closed over him.

He had been at peace. A troubled peace, like a half-remembered dream that had an undercurrent of unease running through it, a water-snake looking for somewhere soft to bite down. He had slept on and on, bodiless in the Summerlands.

But then Albion had called him home in the guise of his lover’s voice.

And he, Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, had obeyed.

Though, in retrospect, if he had known there would be _goats_ involved, he might not have. He might have just rolled over, plumped up his mossy pillow, pulled a thick blanket of loam over his skull, and gone back to sleep.

“I don’t like goats,” he said, for the third time.

“Yeah, well, you certainly like goat’s _milk_ ,” Merlin retorted, with a snort. “ _And_ goat’s cheese. Where do you think it comes from, if you don’t have to milk the goat to get it?”

“Can’t you just--” Arthur waved his hand vaguely, fluttering his fingers. “ _Magic_ the lot up?”

“It doesn’t quite work that way. At least, _I_ don’t work that way. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been the crappest servant known to history, would I?” Merlin laughed, coming round to stand behind the king where he sat propped awkwardly on the three-legged stool. He surveyed the swollen udders as the nanny eyed him balefully, her head craned back and her mouth full of pungent cud. She chewed at it the way Arthur had no doubt she would much prefer chewing on a bit of him, if only she could get her teeth round a likely morsel.

Arthur grunted noncommittally. “I suppose,” he said. “Though it seems rather a waste, if you ask me. My clothes might have been a lot cleaner, and my chambers much tidier. And the food could have been better, too.”

“I’m not responsible for that part, you prat.” Merlin groused. “I didn’t do the cooking, I only supplied the platter. And anyways, you never complained about my cooking when we were out on patrol.”

“Well, it always _was_ a bit salty.”

Merlin’s fingers closed over the nape of Arthur’s neck, a tender threat. “I thought you liked how salty I made things,” he murmured in a silken voice.

Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into the magician’s touch. It was like an addictive elixir, the way his flesh caught fire at the lightest caress.

Merlin bent down to whisper something into Arthur’s ear. The king smirked, anticipating the sweet filth at which his lover was particularly adept. “Milk the goat, Arthur, before she kicks you in the bollocks.”

Arthur grumbled under his breath, but did as he was told. The truth was, he liked the goat and the hens Merlin kept. He liked waking up to the sound of their indignant squabbles. He liked the simplicity of life at the croft. He felt insulated there, as if in a pastoral dream from which he never wanted to wake. It was a sweet idyll that made him think he hadn’t completely emerged from the Summerlands--for wasn’t this what the afterlife was meant to be like? Perhaps he’d simply sunken deeper into the caverns of death. Perhaps he’d longed for Merlin so unwaveringly, the gods had been merciful, and relented. Had given him this. For which he would always be grateful.

But he wouldn’t be able to live like this forever. It wasn’t the way he was made. The way Merlin watched him when he didn’t think Arthur knew it was telling. It was as if Merlin was waiting for signs that Arthur was ready for something more.

And soon he would be. But not quite yet. He wanted to rest, to milk the goat, gather the eggs, sink into his afternoon bath while Merlin bustled about, preparing the evening meal, setting his freshly gathered herbs to dry, resisting Arthur’s attempts at luring him into the cooling water until he finally relented and shed his clothes, no longer bashful except in the old, sweet way.

Arthur had never been cleaner.

He’d never slept better.

He’d never been hungrier for the touch of another, not even in those first feverish weeks when Merlin had become his manservant, and their bodies had collided as if some sort of irresistible force had overtaken them. It was like...what had Merlin said? Gravity. The thing that made a falling object return to the ground. That was what Merlin was: the ground he collided against when he thought he would fall forever.  

Arthur stroked streams of steaming milk from the goat’s plump teats, and she grunted in relief. His hands were strong, his ring like a miniature crown glinting in the morning light. It had been his mother’s. Her death still felt fresh, fresher than his own, though she was dust so long disintegrated that no other person remembered her name. _Ygraine_. He whispered her name, tasting it like a favourite delicacy. This ring and his flesh were the only remnants left of her. As Merlin had once been the only remnant left of him. Though he had a hard time reconciling Merlin as anyone’s leftover.

Arthur craned his neck to look at his friend, who was on his knees in the celery bed, rooting around for only the gods knew what. His garden was clearly enchanted to grow produce out of season. It flourished with verdant life--herbs, lettuces, strawberries and strange vegetables of which Arthur was still too suspicious to eat without extreme trepidation. For all that Merlin said magic didn’t work like that, he had clearly used it towards his own ends. Harmless enough, or so it seemed. And he still worked the earth, weeding the garden beds and watering the riot of leaves. He still scattered seeds for the chickens and replenished the goat’s feeding trough.

In short, he worked hard for what he had.

That was Merlin all over.

Humble. Contented with his lot. Happy to serve.

At first, he hadn’t wanted Arthur to help. He kept on as he always had, fetching and carrying and coddling, until Arthur had become fed up.

_“You can’t keep doing this.”_

_“Doing what?”_

_“Acting as though you’re still my servant. I need to live as ordinary people live.”_

_“But you aren’t ordinary, Arthur.”_

_“But I am, here. Much more so than you are. I’ve always been much more ordinary than you, Merlin. I just didn’t know it. You never let me know it. But now, I do. And you’re going to have to learn to adjust to that. As am I.”_

_Merlin eyed him dubiously. “You’re going to be so utterly crap at being ordinary, Arthur. It’s not as easy as it looks.”_

_“Well, you’re going to have to teach me.”_

_“I thought you said I wasn’t ordinary.”_

_“Merlin.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Shut up.”_

After their chores were done, the two men lazed about in the garden, laying back on the grass, or sitting in odd-looking chairs made of metal and some kind of fabric Arthur had never seen before. Merlin liked to read in the afternoons, and Arthur liked to do nothing, staring up at the sky, or just looking at Merlin for endless intervals, memorizing him again. He was the same old Merlin, but...different. Remade, somehow. As though he was a portrait some new artist had painted.

In some ways, Merlin looked impossibly old. There was something in his eyes that spoke of bearing witness to the beginning and foreseeing the ending of all things. In other ways, Arthur thought he looked ageless. There was a deep and pristine glow emanating from him that made him seem as smooth as a figure carved from candlewax. Even in the darkest corners, Merlin was awash in light. He didn’t look quite human.

To be fair, Merlin had _never_ looked quite human. Unless looking like a walking skeletal system sheathed in the palest skin Arthur had ever seen, save that of his half-sister and arch-nemesis, Morgana, counted as human. Which he wasn’t completely sure that it did.

“You’re....different,” Arthur said, conversationally, after scrutinizing Merlin for a week.

“Am I?” the sorcerer said, shrugging.

“Yeah. It’s like you’re more you, and _less_ you, at the same time. It’s weird.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Yeah. Only I feel like I’m always _less_ me, never _more_ ,” Arthur said uneasily. “Like I’ve left some of who I am behind.”

Merlin smiled sadly. “I felt like that, once.”

“Yeah? When was that, then?”

“When you died.” Merlin said, simply. “I touched your face one last time, and pushed you out into the water. And part of me went with you and never came back. So maybe the feeling like you’re missing something, that thing, whatever it is, and wherever it’s gone--that’s where my missing thing is, too. So no matter what, every part of us is together, somewhere, even if we feel like we’ve lost them.”

Arthur stared at him, not sure what to say. He felt too many things, coiling inside of him. Threatening to bite and consume him from the inside out. So he laughed, and punched Merlin just a bit too hard on his scrawny arm. “Careful, Merlin. That’s starting to sound dangerously like poetry. And you know where that leads.”

Indeed Merlin did. It was what he counted on.

They fell together into the grass, and had another go at uniting all their parts, even the missing ones.

 

One night, they lay together in the bed, not making love for the third time that day. Just. Holding each other. Breathing in counter-rhythm. Talking and not talking. Letting the past wash over and permeate them. Their fingers entwined, a basket of bone and flesh. Merlin fiddled with the thick hammered circlet on Arthur’s finger. It slid round and round, the cleverly soldered segments jangling in the quiet.

“I wanted to take your ring, that day,” Merlin murmured. “I wanted to wear it forever. Like I was. Your widow. But then, I didn’t. I had no right.”

“You had every right,” Arthur said firmly, sliding the heavy ring from his finger. “There is nothing of mine you can’t have. Nothing I wouldn’t give to you, Merlin.”

“You gave me your life, and I lost it for you.”

“You didn’t. Mordred took my life. You--you gave it back to me, so many times. I can’t even count the lives you’ve given me, Merlin. Including your own.”

Arthur held the ring up to the firelight, gazing at Merlin through its center. Crowning the warlock with gold and silver. He shone like a ray of moonlight on a secret lake. A lake that was no more. Though Arthur tasted it, sometimes, when he kissed Merlin. Tasted the breath of Avalon in his sigh.

He slid it onto the warlock’s finger, third from the thumb on his left hand. He didn’t know why he chose that finger, but it felt right. Merlin’s hands were slimmer than his, but the knuckles were large. The ring would stay on unless Merlin took it off, or someone cut it away. Arthur defied anyone living to try. “I should have given it to you years ago,” Arthur said. “It’s yours by right. By more than that. It’s yours by destiny.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice caught in his throat. “This ring was your mother’s. The only thing you have of her.”

“She would have wanted you to have it.”

Merlin was silent for a moment, holding his hand up to the light. The ring glimmered there, snug against his knuckle. Arthur slid his hand over Merlin’s, caressing the ancient metal with the pad of his thumb. Merlin’s fingers spasmed, catching Arthur’s in a fierce grip, grinding the metal between their bones in a way that would mark them both forever. “I’ll never take it off,” he said in a low, deep voice. “To the day I die.”

 _To the day_ I _die_ , Arthur thought. But he didn’t say it. _And to the day you raise me up again._

Merlin sat up in bed, the coverlet pooling about his slender waist. He was naked as a fairy child, his dark hair coiling about his preposterous ears. He looked Arthur deep in the eye, moisture gleaming in his faintly golden irises. He took the ring he wore on the leather strap round his neck and pulled it slowly over his head. Muttering a soft incantation, he gestured the knot loose, and pulled the heavy bronze seal free. He tossed the leather he’d worn down the long centuries away as if it was no more than a bit of rubbish he’d kept too long. He held the bronze ring in the palm of his hand, as if weighing it.

“Arthur, give me your hand.” he said, holding his out. Arthur placed his fingers wordlessly in the warlock’s palm. “It’s time for you to wear this now, to remind you who you are. To remind you of the man you were born to be.”

Merlin slid the ring over Arthur’s knuckle, third finger from the thumb. Arthur had unconsciously offered up his left hand, and he flushed now, realizing what he had done. They were both ringed by the hand of the other, ringed by the will of Albion. Ringed by the love of Camelot. United as they had once been, as they would always be--but more so. They each felt it. Something had shifted. Had been driven true. Arthur had once been married to Gwinevere, and to the land. Though he had loved her, Arthur understood now what he hadn't then: that one marriage was ephemeral, and the other eternal.

As was this.

The bond he made with Merlin was inseparable from his bond with Britain, with the ground beneath his feet. This man whose hand held his was the conduit. He was the High Priest who oversaw the sacred rituals of the Once and Future King, and reigned beside him. He looked at Merlin, and he saw eternity. He saw that which would always outlast him, and call him home.

“Merlin, I--”

Merlin’s fingers found his lips. “Shhh. Arthur. I know.”

Their mouths collided, and Merlin’s breath tasted of brimstone. Of the ancient dread song of dragons. Arthur’s lungs were filled with the borrowed fire that would fuel him all his days. The fire that forged his king’s heart and tempered it strong as iron.

They fell together into their marriage bed. They fell together into a place time could not erase nor legends recreate. In the breath of dragons and the collision of magic with mortal flesh, Arthur Pendragon was made husband again.

 


	7. Magic, Courage, Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin rehash some old sorrows. Arthur drags Merlin kicking and screaming to his favourite place. They are reunited with a very familiar face. Someone they used to know follows them home like a stray.

Their most serious conversations always took place over the table. The satiation of their stomachs seemed to loosen their tongues until they were hinged in the middle. Arthur privately wondered if Merlin didn’t slip something a little more potent into his homemade dandelion wine than sugar, yeast, and weeds, because the young king always seemed to be spilling his guts after filling them to the brim. Recovering from many centuries of death was hungry work. He wasn’t the only one, however, who seemed to feel the urge for the dinner-table confessional. Merlin was often pensive after mealtimes.

“I’m sorry I lied to you for so long,” the warlock said in a low, urgent voice, resting his hand on Arthur’s across the battered oak planks, the remains of their dinner scattered between them like the detritus of a culinary battlefield. “I never got to say that to you, not properly, before...”

“Before I died horribly,” Arthur supplied helpfully. “In your scrawny arms.”

Merlin screwed up his face. “Right. Yeah.”

Arthur eyed him for an endless moment, several expressions battling for supremacy over his regal features. In the end, a familiarly exasperated tenderness won out. “It’s alright, Merlin. I forgave you before I passed over. It took me the best part of three days, but I managed it, in the end. Has that been bothering you, all these years?”

Merlin nodded, dropping his gaze. He was overwhelmed with the terror of those long, empty, unforgiven years. Years in which he could not forgive himself, let alone accept that Arthur had long shriven him of his sins.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Arthur demanded imperiously.

“I might do, yeah!” Merlin retorted, swiping at his eyes. Trust Arthur to make him angry when he was feeling soppy, and ruin Merlin’s cathartic moment. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said, eyes widening in surprise as he held his hands up in mock surrender. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Arthur, I’m serious. It killed me, you know. Lying to you. Deceiving you. Never being able to show you who I really was, while you shared so much of yourself with me. I don’t blame you for feeling betrayed. I’ve never been able to live easily with that.”

Arthur dropped his hands, grimacing. “It wasn’t really betrayal I felt,” he said softly. “It was...more than that. And less. I suppose I just felt really...foolish. Accepting so easily that the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth was nothing more than an incompetent manservant at worst, and at best, my terribly clumsy, though most loyal friend. As if you had nothing better to do than fetch and carry after me, and listen to me moan and complain about my lot in life.”

“Arthur, you complete and utter clotpole,” Merlin said fondly, reaching across the table to caress his friend’s beautiful face before giving it a playful smack. “Haven’t you been listening? I was born to serve you. And I’m the truest friend you’ve ever had.”

Despite the warlock’s jovial tone, Arthur remained serious. He caught Merlin’s wrist and planted a reverent kiss in the deep well of his palm, as if worshipping at the altar of the hand that wielded the power that had saved him so many times. “I know that now, Merlin. And I knew it then. I really did. I just...forgot, for a moment. Because I was ashamed. I’d treated you so badly, sometimes. Especially at the end, when I accused you of being a coward. And all the time, you were the best and bravest of us all.”

Merlin shook his head violently, cupping Arthur’s face in his hands so the king had no choice but to look deep into his eyes. “No. That’s not true. It really isn’t. I had my magic to protect me. When I lost it, at the end, and I had to go to the Valley of the Fallen Kings to get it back, I was as weak as a kitten. Gwaine had to protect me the whole way--he even gave me his sword, Arthur. He was the brave one, and I didn’t protect him. I let him die, just like I let you die. And he never even knew who I truly was.”

He choked up then, and began to weep in earnest, huge, racking sobs that shook his narrow frame. He turned away from Arthur, curling into himself, his arms wrapped around his head as he rocked and ground his teeth, holding back the worst of the sounds his body was making. Sixteen centuries of guilt and grief threatened to tear him apart there and then. He had held it all in for so long, his terrible confessions. And now it was as if a delicate membrane had torn. There was no forcing it all back in. Like a closet monster, it was invisible and omnipresent, tainting everything. Impossible to see let alone recapture.

But then, there were warm, strong arms encircling him, pressing Merlin close, fending off the dragons of grief and chaining them up again. It was like the deep, aching pull of magic, the strength and heat of the Pendragon long lost and found again. Merlin’s eyes flashed gold as he drew the king closer, protecting him from what, he didn’t know.

“You know what your problem is?” Arthur said softly.

“I have a lot of them, apparently,” Merlin laughed shakily. “Which one did you have in mind?”

“You’ve been cooped up in this croft for far too long.” Arthur leaned back to look at his husband with a calculating gaze. “Tell the truth. When was the last time you had any fun?”

Merlin laughed, his eyes crinkling up into twin crescents of delight. “Well, I thought what we did before dinner was rather... _diverting_.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide his pleased grin. “Well, yes, _naturally_ that was fantastic, as always. But I meant fun outside of bedplay. Surely even a man of your considerable talents needs to blow off a bit of steam now and again.”

Merlin opened his mouth to say something truly filthy, but Arthur’s fingers pinched his lips firmly shut. “Merlin. Tell me the _truth_. When was the last time you frequented a tavern?”

Merlin thought very carefully. “2068.”

Arthur huffed impatiently. “Which was when, exactly?”

Merlin muttered something unintelligible, blushing.

“What was that, _Me_ rlin? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Ehm, about...200 years ago, give or take.”

Arthur stared at him incredulously. “But...you _love_ the tavern!”

Merlin rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Not nearly as much as you’ve always been so willing to think.”

“No, I know you, Merlin. You can’t fool me. You _love_ taverns.” Arthur said mulishly, dragging the thinner man to his feet and shoving him towards the clothes cupboard. “That’s it. Change out of that truly vile...whatever it is. And bring your gold. We’re going out to toss dice and drink copious amounts of mead. _And no cheating, this time_.”

“Oh, gods, it’s been 1600 years since that night I beat you, will you just let it go?”

Arthur shook his head. “Never, obviously. Now go get ready before I dress you myself.”

Merlin groaned, about to protest loudly, but the expression on his husband’s face was both endearingly gleeful and inexorable. Maybe they could both do with a night out. He did as he was told.

 

“Don’t you have anything nicer than that?” Arthur complained as they walked the woodland path to the tiny village next to which Merlin had been living ever since it had cropped up in the middle of the sixteenth century. The king eyed Merlin’s second-best jumper balefully, as if it was infested with mites.

“Yeah, I do, as it happens, but you’re wearing it.”

Arthur snorted rudely, plucking at the deep crimson wool. “Your clothes have always been so bloody _itchy_. What do you do, weave thistles into the thread?I still don’t see why I can’t wear one of my old tunics.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I told you, Arthur. One, I didn’t keep any around, and two, even if I did, you’d look a complete pillock. Only cosplaying Ren Faire nerds wear linen tunics and doublets and all of that Medieval get-up. So just, you know, be grateful for what you’re given. Gods, you really _are_ a spoiled prat, aren’t you?”

Arthur regarded him imperiously, puffing out his chest. The jumper was a bit tight, and it strained to contain Arthur’s impressive pectorals. “Well, I’m the bloody king, am I not?”

Merlin stopped, his eyes growing wide. “Ehm, well. About that.”

“What are you saying, _Mer_ lin?”

“You’re not actually the, ehm, king. I mean, not at the moment.”

Arthur’s expression turned swiftly from smug to stricken before he caught himself, and he went over haughty again. “Well, I gathered _that_ , actually, thanks, Merlin. Who is, then?”

“No one. There hasn’t been a king or queen in England for a hundred years.”

“Then who runs the country?” Arthur demanded, scandalized.

“Complete and utter wankers, I’m sorry to say.”

They walked on in contemplative silence for a few minutes. “Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a _wanker_?”

Merlin guffawed. “We _both_ were, not three hours ago.”

Arthur screwed up his face. “I thought you said I _didn’t_ run things anymore.”

Merlin stopped dead, bent over with laughter that bordered on hysterical. “Arthur. Love. Let’s not worry about it right now. We’ll talk about it later, yeah?”

“Alright, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said huffily. “We will. Provided your truly hideous clothes don’t strangle me to death, first.”

“People in this time wear much uglier clothes, Arthur--trust me.”

“Whatever you say, clotpole.”

“Royal prat.”

“Dollop-head.”

“Hey! Stop stealing my words!”

“But they suit you so _well_.”

 

It was a quiet tavern. Warm. Badly lit. Heated by an old-fashioned peat fire in a giant Inglenook The fixtures weren’t alarmingly modern, and though Arthur was over-fascinated with watching the barmaid pull pints through the row of enamel-handled taps, it was much the same as what he was used to in the taverns of old Albion.

“Wow,” he said, admiring his pint after slurping down half of it in one go. “These tankards are pure glass. Must be worth a fortune!”

Merlin reached across the battered table to thumb away Arthur’s foam moustache. “She put a little too much head on it, for my taste,” he complained. “And nothing’s as cheap as glass these days, Arthur--unless you count plastic.”

“Well, you paid enough silver for them,” Arthur remarked. “What’s _plastic_?”

“Yeah, well, that’s inflation for you,” Merlin laughed, not bothering to explain the concept of sofa change. “And plastic is the stupidest thing people ever invented, and seem to think they need more than almost anything else.”

“Well, if I were still king, I would banish it,” Arthur said grandly, downing the last few swallows of his ale. He burped appreciatively, and wiped his mouth. “Where’s the wench? I’d like another.”

“Call her that, and you’ll get us chucked out our our arses.” He caught the woman’s eye, and signalled for two more, making a mental note to tip her well when he settled their tab at the end of the night.

“People of this kingdom certainly aren’t very lively,” Arthur remarked, gazing around at the few regulars occupying the rest of the pub. “Are they victims of some kind of _dullness_ enchantment?”

“Oi, not _everything_ sinister is down to magic, you know,” Merlin retorted, rolling his eyes. “Maybe they’re all just tired after working hard all day.”

“No minstrels, no jugglers, no dice-throwers,” Arthur continued, ignoring Merlin’s protest. “No _wenches_ , and not a brawl in sight. What kind of tavern is this, _Mer_ lin?”

Merlin softened at the sight of Arthur’s face, filled with equal measures hope and bewilderment. He reached across the table to squeeze his lover’s hand, their rings scraping together pleasantly, as if magnetized. “Look, love. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. Maybe this was a bad idea. After all, this is no Rising Sun. In the back of your mind, you were probably half-expecting to run into some old mates. I hate to keep harping on this, but you’re going to have to adjust to the fact that we’re not in Camelot anymore. I mean, it’s not like Gwaine is suddenly going to rise from the grave, punch some bloke in the stomach over a hand of cards, and break up the--”

A resounding crash reverberated behind him, interrupting Merlin mid-pep-talk. He frowned irritably. Perhaps there would be a brawl after all, and he really needed Arthur to hear what he was saying, for his own good.

“The thing is, Gwaine is, well, dead. And so is Perceval, and Leon, and--”

“Ah, Merlin?”

The warlock scowled as Arthur’s eyes, trained on the kerfuffle behind them, bulged, and he grinned wide, pulling at Merlin’s sleeve. Why did Arthur never _listen_ to him? “What is it?” Merlin finally asked irritably.

Arthur tilted his chin pointedly until Merlin gave in and turned round to see what all the fuss was about. Shouting had erupted, and there was a scuffle going on between two men in the hazy darkness ten feet away. A huge haystack of a man was gripping a smaller, more lithely-formed bloke by the collar, lifting him up to shout in his face.

“Look, you slimy little poof, I’m not interested, okay?”

The slighter man just threw back his head and laughed, his white teeth flashing in the hazy gloom. “Sorry, mate,” he drawled in what Arthur would hear as an Ulster accent. “My mistake. No need to get into such a _rí rá_ over it.”

“Ehm,” Merlin said slowly. “Oh my Gods.”

Arthur smirked. “You were saying?”

“Oh, just shut up and go help him, already,” Merlin griped. “I can see you’re itching to stick your oar in.”

Arthur sprang up from the table, practically wriggling with delight like an untrained puppy. He launched himself at Mr. Haystack, looking lithe as a dancer, all of his instincts coming back to him in one joyous swing of his fist. There was a resounding crack as he made contact with the larger man’s jaw, who, rather than falling to his knees in agony, only roared with rage. He took his captive by the scruff and waistband, and sent him careening along the bar, knocking glassware and empty bottles flying to the ground with an almighty crash. If Merlin hadn’t seen this very stunt performed in taverns all over Albion, he would have doubted that it could actually happen outside of a slapstick movie. The sound of cascading shards sounded so familiar that he was nearly paralyzed with nostalgia as he lept to stop the man from going ass over teakettle and onto his skull on the slate floor.

“Thanks, mate,” the fellow drawled, tossing back a mane of luxuriant chestnut hair. He patted Merlin awkwardly on one of the hands that now rested on his shoulders like a pair of brakes. “Nice save. Now, how about we go and help your friend? If I’m not mistaken, he’s about to get his arse handed to him--in pieces.”

Merlin glanced over to where Arthur was engaged in the first skirmish of his new incarnation, and laughed. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

He helped the man down from the bar, and dusted busted glass from his shoulders. The bloke shook his hair again, scattering yet more debris.

“Hi,” he said finally, proffering his hand. It was warm and firm and friendly. Merlin felt a charge of electricity as he gasped it. “The name’s Gwaine.” He squinted at Merlin, his eyes twinkling. “Look, this isn’t a line, or anythin’--but, like, do I know you?”

Merlin laughed, and pulled him into a reflexive half-hug that Gwaine didn’t shy away from. “Maybe in another life, mate--yeah?”

Gwaine grinned. “Like, sure, whatever-- _groovy_ , man.”

Merlin smirked. “Do people say that anymore?”

The gorgeous man from Ulster-that-was smiled his widest, most winning grin, and laughed. “Who knows? I’m too drunk to know what I’m sayin’, friend.”

Merlin’s eyes prickled, some hard thing inside of him melting away. He clapped Gwaine on the shoulder, and the two of them turned to watch Arthur dispatch Mr. Haystack out of the door like a pesky kitten.

“What did you say to him, anyway?”

“Oh, nothin’ too earth-shatterin’,” Gwaine shrugged. “Just offered to let him suck my magnificent cock. For some reason, he wasn’t too keen.”

“Must be blind as well as extremely stupid,” Merlin said dryly.

“Yeah, my thinkin’ exactly,” Gwaine grinned.

Merlin glanced over to where Arthur was crowing triumphantly out of the door after the burly brawler, who was picking himself up out of a puddle and trying to scramble away without looking like too much of coward.

“Yeah, you’d _better_ run!” Arthur called, hooting.

“Ehm, could you just give me a minute, mate?” Merlin said to Gwaine. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll just dust meself off. And then I’m buyin’ you lads a drink.”

Merlin grinned, and then sidled over to Arthur and pulled him aside for a quiet word. “Look, Arthur. About Gwaine. He’s...not really Gwaine.”

Arthur’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?” he said, glancing back at the handsome, grinning man. “He’s clearly Gwaine. Did you see the way he cleaned the bar with his body? That’s _classic_ Gwaine. How many times have we found him halfway across, tossing his stupid hair and grinning his face off like he’s having the time of his life getting his arse handed to him?”

“Yeah, no. Okay.” Merlin sighed impatiently. “He _is_ Gwaine, sort of. But not like you’re Arthur. He doesn’t remember us, or Camelot, or anything that happened to us. We might seem vaguely familiar, but that’s it. He’s been born again, Arthur--not raised from the dead. It’s entirely different.”

Arthur's face fell. “So...he’s no different from any other stranger.”

“Right.”

“We don’t really know him, either.”

“No, not really. It’s like that, sometimes. He’s remembered before. They all do, sometimes. But sometimes...they’re like. Shadow-puppets. Just silhouettes of who they used to be, in Camelot.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “You mean, this has already happened? You’ve known him like this before?”

Merlin coloured a little. “Yeah. Sort of. I mean, last time he remembered. As soon as he saw me, it all came back. Apparently, that’s not happening this time.”

Arthur eyed him suspiciously. “Merlin, why are you blushing?”

“I’m _not_. Just. Never mind. Let’s go see if Gwaine’s alright.”

“He’s fine, Merlin.” Arthur grabbed his arm. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, Arthur. You were dead. Gwaine wasn’t.” Merlin said, sighing. “He was my best mate, in Camelot. Other than you, of course,” he added quickly, when Arthur’s face turned indignant. “He's always been good to me. And I was alone, and there has always been something between us. So, yeah. We were together.”

“I see,” the king said in a voice that was far too calm to be trusted. “And you loved him?”

“Yes,” Merlin said. “Like you loved Gwen. And then I buried him. And it was over.” The pain washed over him anew. He looked into Arthur’s face, willing him to understand. “Did you expect me to be a eunuch, Arthur? It’d been 1400 years. I had no idea when you’d be back, if ever. Gwaine made my life bearable. More than that, he made it wonderful, for a time. Are you really going to begrudge me that?”

Arthur scowled, his mouth opening to release an angry retort. But then, he deflated, his shoulders falling. He put his arms around Merlin, and kissed his hair. “No. No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just. Don’t like the thought of sharing you.”

“Idiot. You don’t have to.” Merlin said, shaking his head. “That was ages ago, and it was a different Gwaine. I don’t want to lose this one because you can’t control unwarranted jealousy. Although,” he grinned cheekily. “I’ve never seen you jealous over me before. It’s kind of sexy.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t get used to it. I don’t imagine I’ve got to compete with very many over your scrawny arse and flappy ears.”

Merlin snorted, and punched him in the arm, allowing a little of his magic to lend it enough force to actually hurt.

“Ow! I said no cheating!”

“That only applies to dice,” Merlin said judiciously. “Punching is fair game. Now, c’mon. Gwaine is going to think we’re being weird.”

“Rich coming from Gwaine,” Arthur muttered, but allowed himself to be pulled over to where the dishevelled rogue was standing. Arthur eyed him suspiciously, no longer very eager to be reunited with their old friend’s doppelganger.

“Sorry about that--Gwaine, was it?” Merlin said, aiming a subtle kick at Arthur’s ankle. “ _Be nice_ ,” he hissed in an undertone.

“Right, yeah, no problem.” Gwaine said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for that, again. It was bloody brilliant. What did you say your name was, mate?”

“Merlin,” he said, paling as he noticed the way Arthur was scowling at Gwaine’s hand, which still rested on his bicep. He shrugged it away as inconspicuously as possible as he reached out to take Arthur’s hand. “And this is Arthur.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Gwaine said, quirking a rakish eyebrow at their joined hands. “I’m disappointed, lads. I was hoping one of you might take me home.”

“We’re _married_ ,” Arthur said huffily, eyeing Gwaine suspiciously.

“And we’ll both take you home,” Merlin said without thinking--blushing furiously as Gwaine’s grin widened. “Not like _that_. Just. If you need a place to crash. We’ve got a sofa.”

Arthur gaped at him. “ _Merlin_.”

“It’s okay,” Gwaine said, raising his hands. “I’m not the ax-murdering type. And besides, we’ve been in a barroom brawl together. That practically makes us brothers--not to mention it’s more'n likely we knew each other in another life, because mate--you look so damn familiar, I’m getting' a serious case of the wiggins, here.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He looked over at Merlin, mystified. “I have no idea what he just said. Do you know this man, Merlin?” he said, as if his face had never lit up at the site of the devilish drunkard.

Merlin stared at Gwaine for a long time. The man’s face was open, eager, full of humour. A little bemused. He clearly felt _something_ , but not enough to really remember. It was Gwaine to the toes, but Merlin's earlier assessment had been right. Nothing that had happened in Camelot, or in any of his other lives, managed to stay with him. As Merlin'd said, their friend hadn’t risen the way Arthur had. Perhaps everything from their previous lives together was locked away somewhere, in the place where the gorgeous, laughing man kept his soul. Only time would tell. But something stirred in Merlin. He knew what he’d told Arthur was true: he didn’t want Gwaine straying far from them.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, before he could help himself. “This bloke’s an old friend of mine. We’ve not seen each other for time out of mind.” He clapped the bemused Gwaine on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, mate. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

Gwaine laughed, playing along. “Not much. You know, same old, same old.”

There was a loud clearing of someone’s throat, and the three men turned to face the barmaid, who wore an expression like thunder. “You three,” she growled. “Get. The. _Fuck_. Out.”

“Right,” Merlin said. “Sorry about all this.”

Gwaine started to protest loudly as Merlin grabbed each of his friends by the arm and steered them firmly through the battered old door and out into the crisp night. “Great,” he groused. “One less place where I can have a quiet pint in the evenings. Trust the two of you to muck it up.”

Gwaine laughed again. Then turned green. Merlin sprang out of the way just quickly enough to avoid having his boots covered in a shower of beery sick.

“Merlin,” Arthur said urgently, eyes wide as he plucked at the sorcerer’s sleeve. “What’s _fuck_?”

Merlin groaned, shook his head, and laughed helplessly. From his prone position on the ground, Gwaine joined in. “I’ll tell you, mate,” he offered. “Better yet, I’ll _show_ you. Though I’d rather show your skinny friend, truth be told.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin snorted. “You couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper _sack_ at the moment.”

“Why do I get the feelin' I’ve heard you  make that joke before?” Gwaine gasped, snorting with laughter that clearly pained him.

Arthur looked back and forth between them, arms crossed petulantly, and scowled. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said dangerously, “But whatever _fucking_ is, you’re _not_ doing it to Merlin!”

They laughed even harder, Merlin doubled over, his arms clutching his aching belly. Gwaine laughed until he was sick again, and then, feeling much better, bounded to his feet as if he’d never been ill. “Which way, lads?”

Merlin took Arthur’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. The former king resisted at first, but then allowed the contact, glaring at Gwaine menacingly as he demonstrated his claim on the skinny warlock while still managing to give Merlin a serving of cold shoulder.

“C’mon,” Merlin said, ignoring Arthur’s fit of pique as he inclined his head in the right direction. “It’s not far. We’re nearly home already.”

As they walked, they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Even Arthur seemed to relax, their footfalls converging into one harmonious cadence that spoke of home, of elder days, of loyalty and friendship deeper than blood and bone. As if what was dead and had risen again had never died in the first place, and never could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story ties into a masterpiece-in-progress written by the wondrous OwnThyself called Of Cairns and Curiosities. I urge you to read and follow it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/787891


	8. Two Halves of a Bacon Sarnie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwaine stays the night with his rescuers. Old feelings stir, arguments over footie ensue. Lots of bacon is washed down by tea in equal measure. In other words, a typical British Sunday morning is enjoyed by all.

Gwaine woke feeling warm and well-rested, like he’d slept for a month in a few short hours. It was like magic, a golden heat enveloping him. He’d have gone on sleeping for hours, but a delectable scent reached down into the fuggy warmth of his dreams and pulled him up by the nose.

“ _Christ_ , what is that gorgeous smell?” he moaned.

“Tea,” a soft voice laughed. “And bacon.”

 “Tea and bacon,” Gwaine repeated, with a massive yawn. He stretched his limbs in four separate directions, joints popping as if he was being drawn and quartered. “Marry me?”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Arthur would have your balls.”   

“Well, all he needs to do is ask nicely,” Gwaine grinned, opening one eye to peek blearily over the side of the sofa. He could just make out Merlin through the curtain of his mussed-up hair. The skinny lad stood in the kitchen, stirring something frothy in a bowl, and he grinned back easily. He really had a nice way about him, Gwaine thought. Merlin was clearly a fella with a sensitive funny bone. Gwaine liked that in a bloke.

“Look,” Gwaine said, struggling to his feet and awkwardly folding the lovely patchwork quilt he’d been wrapped up in. “It was dead kind of ye, takin’ me in like that last night. Not to mention the other stuff, with the arse-kickin’ and rescuin’ and avengin’ me admittedly dubious honour.”

“Oh, that bit wasn’t me,” Merlin replied cheerfully as the eggy mixture hit the frying pan with a fragrant hiss of melted butter. “I’m rubbish in a fight. That was all Arthur. Loves an arse-kicking, that man, as long as he’s the one dishing it out.”

Gwaine’s eyes slid over Merlin’s arse in his baggy jeans. “I’ll just bet he does.”

“You’d better cut that out before Arthur comes back in,” Merlin warned him, but his eyes were still squeezed into crescent-moons of mirth. “He’s the jealous type, in case you haven’t worked that bit out for yourself, yet.”

Gwaine raised his hands in mock surrender, standing up and stretching in the haze of morning light drifting through the mullioned windows. Merlin’s gaze skittered over his chest, resting for a minute on his tangle of talismans. Gwaine realized that one of them was the exact shape of Merlin’s eyes when he laughed. He plucked them up, rubbing them between his fingers. “Like ’em? The moon was me mam’s, and the ring was me da’s. Sort of sentimental, I guess. But they make me feel safe.”

Merlin nodded. “They’re lovely. I don’t have anything of my mother’s.”

Gwaine’s face fell. “Aww, shame.”

“Yeah.” Merlin smiled wistfully. “Make sure you keep them safe. There’s powerful magic in family heirlooms.”

Gwaine nodded thoughtfully, fondling the worn bits of metal. “Sure, I’d feel naked without ’em.”

Merlin set a lumpy, hand-thrown mug down in front of him. “Milk or lemon?”

“Milk, please. And loads of sugar, if you’ve got it.”

“I’ve got honey,” Merlin replied, sliding over the equally lumpy pot. “From my own bees. And I hope you’re not fussy, because the cream comes from my nanny.”

Gwaine stared, wide-eyed, a sticky dollop of honey arrested halfway to his mug.

“Goat,” an amused voice said from the doorway leading out to the back garden. “Nanny _goat_ , Merlin. Clearly Gwaine needs that sort of thing clarified.”

“So did you, might I remind you,” Merlin scoffed.

Arthur strode into the kitchen in an insolent, superior way that seemed extremely familiar. Like a prince. Or a princess who wanted people to _think_ her a prince. Gwaine smirked, and then remembered his manners. “Morning,” he said, smiling uncertainly.

“Good morning,” Arthur returned politely enough, but he didn’t have the easy camaraderie that oozed out of Merlin like water from a sponge. For all that he’d ready to jump into the fray the night before, there was something standoffish about Arthur.

Gwaine had the distinct feeling Arthur wasn’t completely keen on his being there. Some people were like that. Didn’t really take well to sharing what was theirs. A feeling that was reinforced when Arthur kissed Merlin good-morning a little too forcefully, practically drowning the skinnier fella with his tongue. He also got in a rather thorough arse-squeeze that had Merlin blushing like a maiden. Clearly he was a little bit put out by some of Gwaine’s racier comments towards his lover, but shameless flirting was just his way.

Gwaine decided it didn’t hurt to ingratiate himself a little, put the man at his ease. “Thanks again for last night. Saved me arse, both from a kickin’ and a kink. That sofa’s dead comfy.”

Arthur nodded. “Glad to help.” And he did seem to actually mean it, which was a bonus. Gwaine hated being obligated to anyone, especially if they didn’t know how to be gracious about it. With a final prodding of Merlin’s bottom while continuing to eye Gwaine pointedly, Arthur finally let go of the slighter man, who’d resorted to punching him on the arm and feigning a scowl—which was complete bollocks. Anyone with eyes could see that the lad was besotted, and Gwaine could certainly understand why. Not that the blond was really his type—Gwaine went in for spindlier, more ethereal chaps, but Arthur certainly had a good build on him, and a perfectly-sculpted profile to go with it. He was very nearly as handsome as Gwaine was himself, and that was saying something.

Merlin, on the other hand, was something special. He made Gwaine think of that Shakespeare play—the one with Beatrice and Benedick in it. Beatrice was asked if she wouldn’t take a husband, and she said—Gwaine would never forget the exact wording— _Not till God make men of some other metal than earth._ It’d always mystified him, and he’d let the phrase spin round and round in his head until he was dizzy. But now, he fully understood it. Gwaine was definitely a man of earth, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find Arthur was made of metal. But Merlin was of some other stuff completely. He looked like he was carved from starlight. Which was completely soppy and poetical in the worst possible way. But Gwaine knew it was true: the man in the moth-eaten jumper with the untidy hair and raggedy trousers wasn’t completely of this earth.

“Where do you come from, Merlin?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Merlin smiled, bringing the overladen plates to the table. “Wales,” he said. “A little village you’ve never heard of.”

Ah, so that explained the musical lilt of his accent. “You’d be surprised. I get around.”

Arthur snorted, but not in a nasty way, and Gwaine grinned. Maybe the posh little princess had a funny bone after all.

“Ealdor,” Merlin said. “Well, it used to be called Ealdor. A long time ago.”

Gwaine nodded sagely. “Bloody Council. Always changin’ the names of things. It’s like I don’t know where I am, half the time, and the other half, I can’t even read the bloody signs to find out, because it’s all in bloody Gaelic.”

Merlin laughed, nodding sympathetically, and Arthur smiled readily enough, but he kept glancing over at Merlin in a way Gwaine found strange. It was like Arthur was gauging Merlin’s reaction, and following suit. Like a deaf man pretending to be able to follow the conversation. Or like somebody who didn’t speak English very well piecing together every third word into a crazy-quilt of meaning. Gwaine had travelled enough to know what that was like. Feigning understanding more than he did of local customs, culture, and dialect so he wouldn’t be taken advantage of. He knew self-protection when he saw it. He also knew an outsider when he was staring at one.

It was weird, though. Arthur sounded as British as the Duke of Cambridge, and the bloke certainly had a patrician air about him. Maybe he was slumming it with his peasant boyfriend. Hiding out in the woods like one of the Lost Boys in love with Peter Pan. Which made Gwaine, what? Tinkerbell?

“What about you, mate? Where might you be from?” he asked around a mouthful of egg and toast, shoving the bottle of brown sauce over to Arthur. Who looked at it as if it might bite, and continued eating his unseasoned meal. With a spoon and knife. Like the fella’d never seen a fork before.

Arthur took his time replying. Merlin watched him quietly, as if he didn’t know how his lover would answer. Totally weird. Gwaine was starting to get a hinky feeling. Not in a Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God-they’re-gonna-rape-murder-and-bury-me-in-a-shallow-grave sort of way. But yeah. Something was definitely ponging up the state of Somerset.

Gwaine kept eating, though. Playing it cool. Things were starting to get very interesting. He loved a mystery, did Gwaine—he was a Cluedo fiend. Princess Arthur in the kitchen with a silver spoon.

“I’m from…here,” Arthur finally said lamely. He waved his hand, which was decorated with a rather impressive chunk of finery—a large and ancient-looking bronze seal in the place an ordinary fella would plonk his wedding shackle. It looked dead valuable, carved with a sigil of a stylized dragon.  

“Here,” Gwaine repeated, deadpan.

“From the general…area, yes.”

“Right,” Gwaine said, nodding. “Okay. That’s cool, mate, I get it. You just met me, you don’t have to tell me.”

Arthur coloured, shoving another bit of toast slathered in Marmite into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say anything.

“He has…amnesia!” Merlin blurted. “Selective amnesia. He doesn’t remember things that other people take completely for granted, like where he comes from, or what a telly is, or common colloquial phrases.”

Arthur shot Merlin a look, but then nodded. “Yes. That’s right. The only thing I remembered was Merlin.” He smiled fondly, and reached out to stroke a toast crumb from his lover’s stubble-festooned dimple.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Gwaine said.

Merlin flushed. “Like I said. Selective.”

“Yeah, I’d be rememberin’ a mug like that, meself, come high water or Armageddon,” Gwaine grinned. “And if I didn’t, sure, I’d sham it.”

Arthur scowled and Merlin smiled reflexively, but he looked at Gwaine in a searching way that made him feel like he’d been butterflied open, his guts on display. Not to mention his heart and something else, that thing he’d always thought of as his soul.

“Not everyone remembers the things they’ve forgotten,” Merlin said cryptically. “And maybe it’s better that way.”

Gwaine stared back, feeling very sombre indeed, which was not his bag at all. So he grinned, tossing his tangled hair out of his face. “I’ve no earthly idea what yer on about, mate, but this is the finest fry-up I’ve had in ages. Any chance of a refill on my cuppa? I’m parched nearly to death.”

Merlin lifted the Brown Betty obligingly, and Gwaine’s gaze shifted curiously back to Arthur. “So, you don’t know what a telly is? Boob-tube? Idiot box?”

Arthur shook his head, looking distinctly suspicious, as if Gwaine had referred to objects of blackest magic. Which, well—fair point, really.

“I don’t have one,” Merlin said apologetically.

“Shame,” Gwaine said. “There’s a footie match on this afternoon, Arsenal against West Brom. We coulda watched, had some beer and snacks. Best way to spend a Sunday.”

Arthur’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He set it down. “West Brom?”

“Yeah, ye know, West Bromwich Albion. It’s a football club from the West Midlands.”

Arthur glanced over at Merlin. “West Bromwich _Albion_ ,” he repeated meaningfully, like it was some kind of secret code. Ah, young love! “Why don’t you have an idiot box, _Mer_ lin? I’d like to see this…this. What is it, exactly? A melee? A tourney?”

Merlin gusted out a laugh. “Well, sort of, yeah. It’s a sport. People play on teams. There are rules of conduct, rules of play. The members compete to win a cup. It’s right up your alley, actually.”

Arthur’s face was lighting up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Merlin, I want to see this _footie_ melee.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” Merlin said gently.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything you can _do_?” Arthur’s voice dropped meaningfully, his eyebrow raised.

“Um, no, not just now.” Merlin replied, glancing over at Gwaine. “We have _company_ , Arthur.”  

Arthur’s expression turned mutinous, his full mouth pooching out in a pout. “Gwaine won’t mind,” he said. “He wants to watch the tourney, too.”

“Um, well, I’m sorry about that, Arthur, but it can’t be helped.  We don’t have a telly, and we don’t have electricity, remember?”

“I don’t even know what that _is_ ,” Arthur growled.

Gwaine had the good grace to avert his gaze. Clearly he was beginning to overstay his welcome. But he didn’t want to leave just yet. It was crazy, but the thought of walking out the door and leaving these two fellas behind was akin to ripping out his own guts. Everything inside of him rebelled at the idea. Sure, it was the maddest feeling he’d ever had, but Gwaine felt nauseated at the idea of saying goodbye. He wanted to stay in this strange wee house with these odd blokes forever.

It was then he had an idea. The _best_ idea ever. His face lit up, and he laughed, throwing his head back. “Ah, lads! I forgot, but now I’ve remembered, and it’s all sorted!” He reached over to clap Arthur on the shoulder. “I’ve got three tickets to the match. I won ’em yesterday in a card game. I was gonna sell ’em, but then I got too drunk and forgot, which is actually _grand_ , because now I can repay you blokes for yer kindness. The match isn’t until this afternoon, so we can just nip in to Glastonbury, take the train to Birmingham, transfer to the Metro and take it to West Bromwich, and hoof it on over to the Hawthorns, and Robby’s yer mother’s brother.”

Arthur’s eyes were as large as dinner-plates. He looked at Merlin for reassurance. “What’s he saying? I didn’t understand a word.”

“He’s saying he wants to take us to see the footie melee to pay us back for saving his arse last night and feeding him this morning,” Merlin grinned. But then he looked concerned. “Um, that’s dead kind of you, Gwaine—but Arthur’s not been on a train since…his accident. He might freak out a bit. And the crowds, too. I’m not sure he’ll be able to handle so much all at once.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open. He flushed deep crimson, clearly affronted. “I’m _not_ going to ‘freak out’, _Mer_ lin, whatever that means—clearly some kind of apoplectic fit. I’ve never taken to fits in my life, I’ll have you know. I’ll be _fine_. I want to see the tourney, and that’s final.” He pounded his fist on the table, sending the crockery rattling and his spoon spinning off onto the floor. It must have rebounded pretty hard, because it flew right back up again and Merlin caught it.

He glanced at Gwaine, blushing. “Um, wow. That’s a…bouncy spoon!”

Gwaine’s mouth was hanging open. He glanced back and forth between the two men, both of them red in the face. “Em, sorry, didn’t mean to cause an international incident or anythin’, lads. Just thought a spot of footie’d be a nice way to end the weekend.”

Arthur looked at Merlin pleadingly, and the dark-haired man sighed, his shoulders sinking. Then he shook his head, grinning in acquiescence. “Alright, _fine_ ,” he groused. “But if you start to lose it, Arthur, we’re coming straight home.”

“I won’t lose it, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur retorted imperiously, “I don’t even know what _it_ is. But I’ll be _fine_. It’s just a tourney. I’ve been to plenty of them before, as you well know.”

“What sorts?” Gwaine asked, interested. “Badminton? Tennis?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. “No, _jousting_ , of course. Swordplay. Knights, armour, fair maidens—”

“Ah,” Merlin cut in, laughing, as Gwaine’s face contorted in confusion. “I took him to a Ren Faire a few weeks back, and he can’t stop talking about it! Fancies he was a knight in another life. An old woman in one of those fortune-telling booths read his cards for him, told him all sorts of fanciful things. He gets easily confused about what’s real and what isn’t. All part of the amnesia. Now, who’s ready for thirds?”

Arthur looked like absolute thunder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re the one who’s confused, _Mer_ —”

There was a resounding thump and Arthur’s face crumpled in outraged pain as Merlin kicked him none-too-subtly beneath the table.

“More tea?” he smiled tightly, raising the teapot. Without touching it. Gwaine squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, goggling at the innocuous bit of pottery. Merlin’s hand was clearly gripping the handle. It was the hangover. Must be. He was seeing things—not a new experience by any means. He held out his mug, trying not to let it shake. These really were the strangest men he’d ever met. And yet, he felt more comfortable with them than he did his own family.

“So, lads,” he said, sitting back in his chair and belching comfortably. “Is it a date, then? There’s a train at two, and we’d best be on it. Fares are on me, fellas. I insist.”

Two pairs of blue eyes regarded him, one set stormy, the other faultless as a starry twilight. They grinned in unison. “Yeah,” they said together.

Gwaine had a strange flash of recognition. _These two were meant to be one_. _Two halves of a bacon sarnie_. Gwaine was determined to be the brown sauce spicing them up. He’d slather himself all over them before they knew what hit them, and by then—sure, it’d be too bloody late to get rid of him.

He laughed, and tilted his mug towards them in an impromptu toast, because the occasion seemed to call for something ceremonious. “ _ _Sláinte__ _,”_ he said, with great feeling. And he was shocked to find his eyes had misted over. This battered table, these lads, the weathered stones surrounding them. He was buggered if they didn’t feel like home.

Arthur eyed him dubiously. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. But he drank deep, nonetheless. And Merlin’s smile was so brilliant it blinded Gwaine for a moment, and he seemed to see a flash of gold turning the unearthly blue of the man’s irises into a pair of wedding rings before Gwaine’s very eyes. Rings that were never going to be meant for him, but somehow, Gwaine couldn’t feel upset. He was too bloody happy to pay any mind to the dragon of desire roiling in his gut.

He knew this man wasn’t for him. But that didn’t mean Gwaine wasn’t for Merlin. Life was funny like that. It was his to give to anyone he wanted, and he chose Merlin. It wasn’t even a choice. It was an instinct old as time. Gwaine watched him as they drank their tanniny toasts, and Merlin gave him a look of such complete understanding that Gwaine was laid bare, naked as the day he was born for all that he was clothed from neck to nethers. Merlin could see inside of him. Merlin _knew_. And Gwaine was grateful. Sure, sometimes being seen was more than enough to be going on with.


End file.
